


Count the Stars

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Band Fic, Drama, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-17 02:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 39,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4648101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musketeers modern AU story very loosely inspired by the movie Rudderless. Life is pretty normal for Porthos. There's work, band practice and open mic nights at The Wren, but then Aramis introduces them to the new drunk in town and everything turns upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"He's here again," laughed d'Artagnan. "Look!"

"What a fucking state," sniggered Aramis.

Porthos sat quietly, a half empty can of Pepsi trapped between his knees as he watched the drunk guy veer from one side of the street to the other on his route home from the pub to the nearby caravan park. Pissheads were pretty much ageless creatures--Porthos had known a lot of them in his twenty some years on the planet--but this guy seemed younger than most. He was a strange one too, carrying a padded guitar case with him on his back wherever he went.

"Do you reckon he actually has an axe in there?" asked Aramis.

"Nope," said d'Artagnan. "I bet you ten quid it's full of cans to see him through til tomorrow." He snorted. "Either that or it's a real axe and he's a serial killer."

Porthos had watched the bloke fall over almost every night for the last month since he arrived in town and, without fail, he always protected the contents of the case. "It's a guitar," he said with absolute certainty.

"Well, I'm going to find out," said Aramis, jumping to his feet with a mischievous grin on his face.

"Nah, leave him be," said Porthos. He had no time for drunks, but this was a particularly miserable one, so melancholy it hurt to look at him.

"Jesus, Porth." Aramis nudged him with the toe of his boot. "You're empathising again. You're such a saddo." Without waiting for a riposte, he charged off down the grass slope and vaulted the railings, then raising a thumb at his friends he caught up with the pisshead, slipping an arm around his shoulders and directing him along the path and into the park. "This way, tiger. That's it." He manoeuvered him without much difficulty over to their group. "Lookee here, boys. I found us a new friend to play with," he said, pushing the man down until he was sitting on the grass beside them. "Hello there. I'm Aramis. This is Porthos and the baby here is d'Artagnan."

The man's eyes widened as he tried and failed to get to his feet. 

"Settle down, now," said Aramis. "Honestly, we're not going to mug you. We just want to know two things and then we'll let you go off and do your bingeing in peace."

The man blinked owlishly, trying to make sense of the world around him, and for the first time Porthos noticed the colour of his eyes. He had a soft spot for green, but not on alcoholic losers. "Let him go home," he pleaded.

"What's your name, mate?" said Aramis, ignoring Porthos and hunkering down opposite the man. "We've introduced ourselves to you, so it's only polite you do the same."

"Athos. Just Athos." 

That voice was slurred, scratchy as if it hadn't been used for a long time, but there was a hint of melody about it all the same.

"Pleased to meet you, Athos," said Porthos. "Now go home and sleep off the booze."

"He's got a mountain man beard," laughed d'Artagnan. "A tenner says it's a real axe in the case." He prodded Athos with a wary finger. "But if we try and find out he'll probably murder us."

"There's three of us, and Porthos is built like a tank," said Aramis. "Don't be such a wuss." He turned his attention back to the drunk. "Athos, my friend. All we want to know is whether there's a guitar in that case of yours."

Porthos looked at him sympathetically. "If you show them then they'll leave you alone. They've had a few too many beers themselves tonight and they're being _arseholes_." His glare at Aramis coincided with the last word of the sentence. "But most of the time they're good blokes and I promise they'll do as they say."

The man--Athos--fixed his eyes on Porthos and struggled to remove the padded case from his back, getting tangled in the straps along the way. He opened the zipper and inside was a beaten up old Epiphone acoustic. The way he ran his palm across the scratched wood surface told Porthos everything he needed to know. The instrument might be crap but the guy was, without doubt, a musician of some sort.

D'Artagnan snatched it out of the case and Athos grabbed it back from him, frowning, almost snarling with annoyance.

"You really are a tiger," chuckled Aramis. "So, play us something then."

"If you insist," mumbled Athos, directing his glare at Aramis and fishing inside his jeans pocket for a pick. 

He was bound to go for Stairway or Smoke, thought Porthos as the guy began to strum a couple of chords. Fifty years on from the heyday of rock and that was all most wannabe guitarists ever played. That and Green Day.

Surprisingly, the song turned out to be nothing he'd ever heard before. Three bars in he was less than impressed, but then Athos began to sing in a low voice that was so broken with emotion it was haunting, haunted even, and chills ran up and down Porthos' spine. 

A minute or so later, Athos stopped abruptly, shoving the guitar back inside its gig bag then standing up way too quickly. He was bewildered from drink, unsteady on his feet, and Porthos leapt to his assistance, not wanting to see him crash to the ground again. 

"I'll walk you home," he said in a gentle voice.

"There's no need," mumbled Athos. He looked around at everyone. "Sorry, I..."

"Nothing to be sorry for," said d'Artagnan with a shrug. "You're really good, man. You need to come to open mic at The Wren tomorrow. We can have a jam with him, can't we, boys?"

Athos looked more confused than ever at the invitation and Porthos wasn't at all surprised, because even he wasn't sure whether d'Artagnan was taking the piss or not and he was stone cold sober. He glared at his friend, just in case.

"I'm serious, Porth," said the kid. "I had goosebumps listening to that."

"I agree," said Aramis. "What do you say, buddy? Will we see you tomorrow?"

"Come on, you," said Porthos, helping Athos into the straps of the guitar bag. "I want to make sure you get back to your van okay."

As they walked back down the slope Aramis shouted a final message across the green: "Porthos, I still remember you trying to rescue those orphaned hedgehogs." He paused dramatically. "They all died." 

Porthos stuck a middle finger up at him. "Fuck off, d'Herblay."

"Leave him in the bushes," yelled Aramis. 

"I'm not a baby hedgehog," muttered Athos as they turned right up West Street.

"Nah, you're prickly enough to be an adult." Porthos grinned. "Probably flea infested too."

Athos turned those green eyes on him with a look of such indignant incredulity that Porthos bellowed with laughter and carried on chuckling all the way to the caravan park.

After a few ill judged attempts, Athos finally slotted the key into the lock. "Thank you, but you needn't have," he said once he'd managed to get the door open, and his voice was slurred but so full of withering sarcasm that Porthos started laughing all over again. "Still, you seem to have enjoyed our walk."

"Sorry, bruv." Porthos wiped wet eyes. "I like your style." He paused. "And your song. Sleep off the booze and we'll pick you up at six tomorrow."

"What for?" said Athos, scratching his head.

"Open mic at The Wren," said Porthos. "D'Artagnan was right."

"I don't perform for people," said Athos, shaking his head.

"You just did," said Porthos. He patted Athos on the shoulder. "Come along and have a few beers then see what you think."

Athos shrugged and shut the van door, but before he did so Porthos noticed that it was neat and clean inside, far from the usual alcoholic's squallor. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

Back at his bedsit, Porthos made a cup of tea and then picked up the Tanglewood, strumming through a couple of his own bright sounding songs and then stopping for a moment to think of Athos and that broken voice and utter melancholy. They were chalk and cheese, but sometimes that turned out to have magical properties when combined. Then again, it was far more likely that Athos had just the one song in his repertoire which might not even be his own.

Trying to put the man out of his mind, Porthos played some Pixies and some Pumpkins and then a couple of sadder Dylans until his fingers naturally began to unwind the mystery of Athos' lament. Hours later, he was still figuring out the strange chord progressions and had to force himself to go to bed so he'd be up in time for work.

*

"Gets into your head, doesn't he?" said d'Artagnan, leaning on his rake.

"Who does?" asked Porthos, looking up.

"Our new friend, Athos, just Athos," said Aramis. "I'm beginning to regret talking to him."

The three of them worked for the council, doing clean up, general maintenance and rough gardening. Aramis had talked his way into a job as soon as he'd left school, convincing his boss to employ Porthos and then d'Artagnan as part of the team. All for one, was his motto. He might be an arrogant pain in the arse at times, but he was a top bloke -- family to Porthos where his own was a burden.

"I dunno what you mean," said Porthos, emptying the bin.

"You were humming his song," laughed Aramis.

"We could do with another guitarist," said d'Artagnan. "Your playing's all over the shop at times."

"Thanks a bunch," said Porthos, wondering if he was about to be replaced by a six foot drunkard with a full beard and an attitude problem.

"He just means you speed up on the faster songs when we're all getting into it," soothed Aramis, slapping d'Artagnan around the head. "Anyway, we're way ahead of ourselves. We haven't even heard him play properly yet."

"He told me he doesn't perform in front of people," said Porthos, "but I think I persuaded him to come along tonight,"

"He'll be passed out drunk," predicted Aramis.

"No, he won't," said Porthos. There was something in those eyes which was crying out for friendship. He just needed an encouraging shove in the right direction.

At six o'clock, when d'Artagnan pulled his Transit up to the side of Athos' caravan, the door was swinging open on its hinges.

"This doesn't look too hopeful, Porth," said Aramis with a rueful smile.

Porthos agreed, but he still wasn't giving up on the idea. In his head, he'd built this into a thing--a really good thing at that--and opportunities should never be wasted.

Athos, on the other hand, was very much wasted. He lay half naked on the caravan floor, his fingers clutched around a near empty bottle of cheap vodka. 

"Oh, mate," said Porthos, hunkering down to look at him. "What have you done?" 

The worst thing--the thing that made Porthos' heart hurt the most--was that Athos had clearly been trying to get ready to go out. He was wearing a clean pair of jeans and he'd even bothered to hack off his beard and have a shave. It was a shock to realise how young he actually was, only a couple of years older than them by the look of it, certainly still in his twenties.

"Right," said Porthos, determined not to give up on him. "Get those clothes off and then into the shower."

"I had a shower already," said Athos, blinking at him. 

"And this time you're having a cold one," growled Porthos.

It was a difficult task fitting two big men inside one tiny bathroom, but Porthos was determined to help, stripping Athos off, holding him steady as the vodka made a return journey and then watching over him as he balanced precariously in the shower cubicle. By the time they emerged, d'Artagnan and Aramis were lounging on the banquettes with Aramis reading random lyrics out loud from a sheath of papers.

"Are these all your songs, Athos?" he asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

Athos made that snarling sound again, grabbing the bundle of papers and shoving them into an old laptop bag. "They're private," he said, and it was impressive how authoritarian he could manage to be when wearing only a small towel which was barely hanging onto his hips.

"Okay, okay." Aramis held up his hands. "Bad boy. No touch."

"Are we going anytime soon?" muttered d'Artagnan. "I told Treville I'd come early to set up my spare kit for everyone. He'll be mad."

"Give him a bell," said Porthos. "Tell him we'll be there in half an hour." He looked at Athos. "Just as soon as I've poured some coffee down this one's throat and got him dressed."

"You're not serious?" said Aramis. "We can't bring him with us. He's blind drunk, just like I said he'd be."

Athos held out his hand flat, tipping it from side to side. "Drunk but not quite blind yet," he said with a small huff of laughter and, at that, the towel gave up the fight and slid to the floor.

"What are you like?" grumbled Porthos, ushering the naked man into the bedroom.

"He's not your type," yelled d'Artagnan. "And I'm not sure he's in a fit state to say no."

"Fuck off, puppy boy," yelled Porthos.

Athos flopped backwards on the bed, a bleary but disarming grin on his face. "I could say no if I wanted."

"Yeah, I'm sure you could," said Porthos, helping him on with his boxers. He most certainly wasn't Porthos' usual type. 

All of a sudden, Athos lunged up and made a grab for him, planting his mouth on Porthos' and diving in with his tongue. It wasn't a skillful kiss, nor was it pleasant with all the fumes and Porthos lurched free.

"Sod off," he snapped. "I'm trying to help you here. Stop being a dick."

"Everything all right in there?" shouted Aramis.

"Yeah fine," said Porthos, throwing Athos his jeans and socks then finding him a clean t-shirt from the drawer.

"I'm sorry," said Athos, hugging his knees. "Stupid. Drunk."

"Yeah, stupid drunk," said Porthos with feeling. "Now make it up to me and start acting like a human being."

Athos stared at him and then, slowly but surely, he began to dress himself, finally shoving his feet into his Doc Martens and tying the laces.

"Ready?" said Porthos and Athos nodded.

The Wren was already heaving when they arrived and, as d'Artagnan had guessed, Treville was as mad as a caged lion.

"I pay you to be on time," he growled.

"You don't pay us anything," pointed out Aramis. "And d'Artagnan lets you use his gear out of the goodness of his heart."

"Well, maybe I'll start paying you and then you'll be more reliable," said Treville with a wink. "He passed over two beers and a Coke and then noticed their fourth."

"Who's this?" he said, peering at Athos suspiciously. "Haven't I banned you from here?"

"Probably," said Athos with a shrug. "But I have no idea where I am, so who knows."

"I'll vouch for him," said Porthos. "He's having one drink and that's it."

"Two drinks," said Athos holding up two fingers. "You said it in the plural yesterday."

"Oh, I did, did I?" chuckled Porthos. "So you have a memory for important details then?"

Athos smiled and laughter lines crinkled into a bunch around the corner of each eye.

"Am I signing you up to play tonight?" Porthos continued, bolstered by the fact that the ever present guitar case was by his side.

Athos shook his head. "You said I could just hang out," he said, raising an eyebrow. "And drink."

"I suppose I did," said Porthos, adding Athos to the participant sheet regardless, before enlisting their own band with an irritated wince. The Musketeers was a fuckawful name, but Treville had started calling them it years ago because of Aramis' _all for one_ motto and it had stuck fast.

Once the small stage was set up and the music began, Athos was hooked. He watched everything avidly from the percussive guitar playing of François Lemay to the weird antics of Louis Bourbon.

"Sometimes he thinks he's Morrissey," murmured Porthos. Today however, Louis was dripping in bling and trying to be the new Kanye.

"Oh fuck," said Porthos, embarrassed that he'd actually brought Athos here to witness this disaster.

"That guy is a dick," said d'Artagnan when he and Aramis had run away in horror from the mixer, leaving Jacques to it.

"Why is Anne going out with him?" wailed Aramis. "I don't understand."

"Close your ears," whispered Porthos to Athos from behind his hand. "Whatever you do, don't listen, don't acknowledge and don't make eye contact."

"What?" said Athos.

"It's the quickest way to end his moping," said Porthos. "Otherwise he'll be at it all night. He's in love with Anne, but she's with Louis and has been since they were at school. It's so bloody boring."

"A beer might help me get through it," said Athos hopefully.

Porthos eyed him up and down then shoved the empty glass at Treville. The guy was pretty sober right now and, with any luck, a couple more pints would give him enough dutch courage to sing later.

"The one on the left is Anne," he said as he pointed at the two girls who had just taken to the stage. "The one on the right is Constance, d'Artagnan's girlfriend."

"Really? You don't say."

Athos quirked that eyebrow again and Porthos grinned at him. It was an unnecessary piece of information, the way d'Artagnan was whooping and cheering the girl on before they'd even begun.

They were a good duo. Their voices blended seamlessly and the harmonies were immaculately done. Constance was solid on the guitar and Anne's mandolin playing was a lilting dance over top of it.

"I like them," said Athos with a nod of approval.

"I hope you like us," said Porthos, getting the first quiver of stage fright. They were up next for their first set of songs and he always felt close to puking when a performance was looming. Thank god it wasn't the O2 arena.

"I like you," said Athos, with a lopsided smile. "Whether I like your band remains to be seen."

On his way to the stage, Porthos ruffled Athos' hair and for some reason the butterflies diminished. Clutching the headstock of his PRS he followed Aramis and d'Artagnan up the steps, the cheap pub lighting rig giving it an existential feel. 

"You all right, Porth?" said Aramis, slinging his bass around his neck.

"Fine and fit," said Porthos with a grin as he slipped the strap of the electric over his head. "No upchuck about to happen."

"Good," said Aramis. "Keep it that way. I hate being in the line of fire when you're nervous."

"Let's do this, boys," said Porthos and d'Artagnan counted them in. 

Their songs went down well. There were the usual timing issues and d'Artagnan dropped his sticks a lot, but it was the retro riot that the punters expected. Finishing up the set, Porthos found himself looking to Athos for approval, but the bloke wasn't even watching and was instead busy stacking beer mats into a tower.

"You were good," Athos said as they surrounded him afterwards and the house of cards tumbled to the bar.

"Not great then?" said Aramis.

"If you'd prefer it then yes." Athos shrugged. "You were great." He said it without meaning a word. 

"Don't fucking lie." D'Artagnan frowned at him.

"They were fab," said Constance, who was tucked into d'Artagnan's side and looking adoringly up at him. "Everyone loves them."

"Then they were fab and I love them too." Athos swallowed down his pint and stood up. "I'll be off now."

Porthos leant over the bar and refilled Athos' glass from the tap, ignoring the disapproving look from Treville. "No," he said. "First you tell us what you don't like about us."

"Why do you care what I think?" said Athos, sitting heavily back down on his bar stool, the only sign that he'd had way too much to drink today. "What I think doesn't matter. I don't matter."

"I dunno," said Porthos, wondering the same thing. "I just want to know."

Athos cocked his head to one side. "Your songs don't mean anything. They're banal little ditties for people to bounce around to." He raised his glass in a toast. "But they're fine. Carry on. Write songs about cars and parties and sunshine." He looked around at them dismissively. "What else would you know? You're barely old enough to drink."

"Aramis and I are twenty three," said Porthos. "And you're what? A whole twenty five."

"Twenty six actually," said Athos.

"And those three years make all the difference," said Porthos. He was angry now. Really angry and bitterly hurt.

"As it happens, yes," said Athos. "Three years of _my_ life makes all the fucking difference."

"Then show us," said Aramis taking the acoustic out of its case and thrusting it into Athos' hand.

"Go on," said Porthos, his arms folded. "Show us how much more you've learned."

Scraping his hair back, Athos took a deep breath and stood up, weaving his way through the crowd to the small stage and shoving past the young ginger lad who'd just finished ripping off Ed Sheeran.

He sat on the stool, heel of his boot resting on the cross strut as he tuned up, then he closed his eyes and all was quiet up there for far too long.

Convinced, after so much time had passed, that Athos wasn't going to play a note, Porthos was torn, wanting him to be a washout, but at the same time aching to hear that voice again.

When he finally began playing it was a different song to last time. If anything it was more self destructive, more hurtful, the lyrics never adding up to a story, yet building an emotion that was so intense Porthos was aware of nothing but the man with his broken chord structure and his pain. 

When it was over, Athos charged off the stage to a shocked silence and put his guitar back in the case. Handing over two twenties to Treville, he demanded a bottle of vodka and, once it was in his possession, he glared furiously at Porthos.

"Don't ever make me do that again," he snapped and then strode out of the bar.


	2. Chapter 2

"Porthos, don't let him get to you," said d'Artagnan as they were busy hacking back the nettles along the cycle path by the river. "He's a pathetic loser. He knows nothing about your life and what you've had to put up with."

"I wish I'd never pointed him out," said Aramis and then he smiled. "Someone ought to tell him that emo went out of fashion years ago. He probably still secretly listens to MCR."

"No no, it would be that woman," sniggered d'Artagnan. "You know." He launched into a warbling falsetto. "Wake me up inside. Call my name and save me from the dark."

"Evanescence," snorted Porthos, the image of Athos moping around his trailer and wailing out Amy Lee numbers, too good to resist.

"Attaboy," said Aramis, clapping an arm around his shoulder and squeezing tight. "We know you, Porthos. He doesn't have a clue what he's saying, or how hurtful he's being. You don't need to puke out all your misery on stage to be a successful musician. You puke enough as it is."

"Ha ha, mate, very funny." Porthos leant against him, borrowing some of his strength. "But the thing is, I kind of agree with him. I think that's the bit that hurts the most."

He'd been wishing for some depth for a while. He had it in him, but it was far too personal. He couldn't spit out his life story to a pub full of drunken idiots and have them dance around to it like it didn't matter. That wasn't what he was about.

The whole business still preyed on his mind though, and after a couple more nights of watching Athos stumble home to the park, he decided enough was enough.

He wouldn't exactly say he had a plan as such, but he had an inkling of what to do, and on Saturday morning he turned up at the caravan, knocking with Sheldon relentlessness until Athos opened up, staring at him with bloodshot, unfocused eyes. 

"Oh god, it's you. Haven't we humiliated each other enough? I was hoping our relationship was well and truly over."

"Nah," said Porthos, "Unless you try and kiss me again, because that was rank, man."

To his delight, Athos blushed crimson, yet still retained some verbal composure. "I'll bear in mind that nakedness and kissing are the best ways to keep you at bay." He smirked. "The sad story of my life."

Porthos had a feeling that rejection probably lay at the heart of Athos' angst, but he wasn't going to push for the details of said sad story. He was here to learn from the master of misery. "Can I come in?" he asked.

"No," said Athos. "Go back to your pop punk rehearsals." He looked thoughtful. "I bet you even practice in someone's garage."

Porthos wilted.

"You do." Athos brightened considerably. 

"Well, yeah. A shed actually, but only because d'Artagnan's mum couldn't stand the noise of his kit, so she had it soundproofed for us."

"Then run along to your shed." Athos smirked triumphantly.

"We're not rehearsing til tomorrow," said Porthos. "D'Artagnan's with Constance, Aramis is with Adele and Monique. They're twins, you know."

"I didn't know and I don't much care," said Athos, leaning against the doorjamb.

"So, anyway I'm here with you," said Porthos. "And you're about to make up for being a dick on Wednesday."

Athos glowered. "I was a dick?"

"That's right,” said Porthos. "Well done."

" _You_ were the dick," retorted Athos. "Forcing unwanted truths out of me and then making me sing in front of people."

"Sorry," grinned Porthos. "Good thing I bought a load of those little fresh donuts from the café with me for our breakfast."

Athos stared at the greasy bag. His eyes remained steely, but Porthos could tell that his resistance was lowering and so he decided to play his trump card.

"Plus some soft pretzels and beer for lunch."

"Fuck you," said Athos, standing aside and letting him into the van.

He already had a pot of espresso on the stove and they sat around the laminated dining table, dunking warm pastries into sweet milky coffee and eyeing each other warily as they ate breakfast.

"I'm not going to be your friend, or tell you anything about myself," stated Athos.

"Great," said Porthos. "I've got plenty of friends and I fucking hate alcoholics and their sob stories."

Athos swallowed compulsively and Porthos could see then how ashamed he was, but his embarrassment was irrelevant. No-one could help an alkie. God knows he'd tried hard enough. They had to stop drinking for themselves.

"What _do_ you want then?" asked Athos. The prickles were softening and anxiety was coming to the fore. 

"I want you to teach me to write songs," said Porthos

Athos relaxed visibly and stole the last beignet from the bag. "Can't do that. It's either in you or it's not."

Porthos took his acoustic out of its hardcase and stroked the sleek maplewood neck. Without another word he began to play Athos' first song, the sadness of it filling his heart.

"That B minor is diminished," said Athos and Porthos smiled to himself, correcting it and carrying on singing.

"You have a really nice voice," said Athos and he looked away for a moment. "You make it sound less harsh."

Porthos strummed the final chord. "Where does it go next?" he asked. "A middle eight?"

"Where do you think?" said Athos. "What would you do?"

Put on the spot like that, Porthos went for an obvious E minor progression and Athos shook his head, reaching around to pick up his own guitar, which was lying on the banquette. He took the song in a totally unexpected direction and Porthos watched and learned and then joined in.

Their voices weren't seamless when combined like Anne and Constance when they sang together. Instead they fought against each other, so _imperfect_ that it was brilliant, something new and raw: a bit of that chalk and cheese magic.

"Bruv, we are fucking golden," said Porthos. "Teach me something else. That one you played at the Wren."

It was an immense day. A total fucking jaw dropping day when the music became sorcery and bewitched them both with its spell. Booze had been forgotten, sheets of lyrics were spread out over the table and everything was brilliant.

"What's this one?" said Porthos, glancing down at a smudged scrawl on a sheet of crumpled A4 then playing the open chords that were marked at the top and having a random stab at the melody. "Take a breath and count the stars. Let the world-"

"Stop it," said Athos, snatching up the paper before Porthos could read any more of the lyrics. "Not that one. It's not finished. It'll never be finished."

He rested his head in his hands, the paper a barrier between them and everything became quiet. Quiet enough to hear a E string hit the carpet tiles. In fact, if Porthos hadn't seen Athos' shoulders rising and falling, he'd never have known he was crying, but he'd done enough of it himself in the past to known the signs. The most painful crying was always the silent kind.

Neatening the lyric sheets into a pile, he placed them carefully into the laptop bag, then rummaged around the kitchenette, not really looking for anything, just keeping busy until the man could pull the pieces back together.

"I could do with a beer," said Athos, after a while.

"Coming right up, buddy," said Porthos, bringing over a four pack of lager, some cans of Coke and the bag of pretzels.

"Sorry," said Athos as he popped the ring pull. The crumpled paper was gone, the only evidence of it a slight smudge of tearstained blue ink on the ridge of Athos' cheekbone.

"It's okay," said Porthos. "I didn't mean to be nosy."

"You weren't," said Athos, chugging down his beer. "I forgot it was in there."

"I know you think I'm wet behind the ears." Porthos stared out of the window. "But I get what it is to suffer. You put everything into your songs and I want to do that, but I can't. It hurts and it's private and I need to keep it locked away somewhere safe. Writing about sunshine and love and cars and parties is the way I do that. Protection, you know."

"We're very different," said Athos. "We come at this from very different places."

"Is it coz I is black?" grinned Porthos, needing to lighten the mood before he poured out his whole sorry life story to this man.

Athos huffed with laughter, then he grinned and an unbreakable bond formed between them. "Twat," he said affectionately, opening a new can.

"Are you going to get shitfaced?" said Porthos. "Because I'm not being on vomit duty."

"I have to work damn hard to get pissed on beer," smirked Athos. "So you're probably safe." He pulled his pretzel into thirds and took a bite. "What I was saying is that you write your songs to be performed. I don't do that. Mine are personal so it's much easier to put everything into them."

"They're cool though, because they paint pictures rather than tell stories," explained Porthos. "They mean things to me. It meant stuff to every person in the bar on Wednesday. Your music makes people feel. I want to do that to an audience."

"Then let go when you're writing," said Athos.

"Funny, mate, because you don't strike me as a letting go kind of a person."

"Maybe I am in private," said Athos. "When it's just me and my guitar."

"Kind of your own personal therapy session," said Porthos.

Athos spluttered with laughter, beer droplets spraying out onto the table. "You could indeed say that, mon ami."

Porthos warmed inside because he had a feeling that despite Athos' earlier words, they had fallen headlong into a true friendship.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you lot all matey again?" said Treville as the four men lined up like sitting ducks at the bar. "And there was I thinking last week's tantrum signalled the end of something beautiful and new." He smirked at Athos.

"It wasn't a tantrum." Athos shook his head. "I don't like being cornered, that's all."

"He lost his shit a bit," explained Aramis. "Everyone's allowed to do that once in while. D'Artagnan does it weekly." 

"I do not," retorted d'Artagnan and even Constance laughed at this, listening in from a table where she was deep in conversation with Anne. It didn't look like setlists they were discussing.

"See?" said Aramis. "Even your sugar momma knows it's true."

"Excuse me," retorted Constance. "I'm two years older than him, that's all."

Porthos let the arguments rage on and after he'd finished setting up the stage he began to fill in the signup sheet for the evening.

"Am I putting your name down, Athos?" he asked.

Apart from Saturday's open mic session and Sunday, which was set aside religiously for Musketeers rehearsals, he'd spent all his free time with Athos. It was not only the music that made him happy; it was the feeling that he was making a difference. Athos was never entirely sober, but neither had he got blind drunk.

"I suppose so," said Athos tentatively. "Later on though. I need more beer under my belt first."

"At least you don't vomit it up everywhere like Porthos does." Aramis slapped an arm around each of their shoulders. "Apparently, Anne's had a fight with Louis," he whispered, nodding at the girls. "Do you think I should go over and console her?"

"Don't you fucking dare, buddy," said Porthos. "I'll rip your dick off if you so much as think about it. Stick to the twins. I'm sure they'll be along later to wave their tits at you."

Aramis sighed. "I'm sure they will, but they're so boring. All they want to do is fuck. Anne and I have a connection."

"Yeah," growled Porthos. "It's called music. Leave it at that, eh?"

"I suppose you're right." Aramis watched as the girls took to the stage. "It's for the best." He snorted with sudden laughter. "Constance is going to brain d'Artagnan if he keeps fussing around her."

"Oh god," said Porthos. "He's trying to tune her guitar for her now."

"I predict this is going to end badly if he doesn't stop it soon," said Athos.

"You say that with feeling," said Aramis. "I'll bet a tenner that you've got a sad Country and Western story to tell."

"Maybe I have," said Athos raising his eyebrow and smirking. "And if you buy me a beer perhaps I'll sing it for you some time."

"I'm pretty sure I've been duped," laughed Aramis, beckoning Treville over. "Two pints and a Coke please, Johnny boy," he said, at which the bar owner glared at him. "And one for yourself," added Aramis, softening the blow.

For some reason, Porthos felt more confident about their first set that night. It was what it was: a thumping good beat and some bouncy melodies with lyrics to match. Their audience loved them and even Athos was smiling. 

"I saw you," he said racing up to the bar afterwards for his regulation pint of the hard stuff: iced water with lemon.

"Saw what?" said Athos

"Your foot was tapping," said Porthos triumphantly. 

"Only because d'Artagnan didn't drop as many beats," said Athos with a dry smile of satisfaction at having a parrying blow.

"And that's because Porthos wasn't speeding up like a bike going down a hill," retorted d'Artagnan. "D'you know how hard it is for me and Aramis to rein you in, big guy? No wonder my timing's off."

"Boys," said Aramis, an arm around each of his friend's shoulders. "We were great. Don't spoil the moment."

Porthos agreed, light hearted with happiness, but then he turned his attention to Athos who was staring at his beer rather than drinking it.

"You okay, bruv?" he asked

Athos shook his head then reached in his back pocket for his wallet and signalled Treville over. "A bottle of vodka please, mon ami."

"Athos," growled Porthos, shrugging off Aramis' arm. "Talk to me."

"Can't do it," said Athos. "I was drunk and angry last time." 

Lemay was about to finish up and there was no one left on the list other than Athos and then the Musketeers' own closing set. He beckoned Aramis over. "Go ask the girls if they'll do another song," he said and Aramis nodded.

Porthos turned his attention back to Athos. "No one's making you play," he said gently. "But your stuff is amazing. You know I love it and I want other people to hear it too."

Treville watched over them from a distance then stowed the bottle of vodka on a shelf.

"I can't," said Athos, his voice strangled. "Sometimes it's too much, you know."

"Oh, I know all right," agreed Porthos. "What _were_ you going to sing?"

"All About, Having, and Face Down," said Athos, swirling his finger around the foam at the top of his glass.

"I'd probably go with Silence rather than Face Down, but good choices," said Porthos. "How about I play them with you, just like we've been doing in the van? Two stage frightened wankers together."

"I suppose I could try." Athos smiled at him, sad but real, and Porthos' heart lurched unexpectedly. 

"Nothing could ever be worse than Louis and he gets up here twice a week without fail." Porthos grinned, trying to joke away the unexpected feelings.

"Suppose I burst into tears on stage?" said Athos.

"Been done already." Porthos sniggered. "Aramis did it the first time I threw up on him and I was so embarrassed I joined in with the crying."

"Not true."

"Totally true," said Porthos with a Scout's honour salute. "It was junior rock night here in The Wren. Aramis and I were thirteen and d'Artagnan was eleven."

"You're trying to make me feel better," said Athos as Porthos handed him his guitar case and led him through the jam packed bar.

"I am, but it doesn't stop the story being true." Porthos grinned at him full beam and they took to the stage together. It felt good, he thought. Having Athos next to him felt right in some cosmically weird way.

They faltered at first, both intrinsically unsure of themselves, but then the music took over and they were back in the van, singing Athos' songs and bewitching everyone in the vicinity. Two numbers in and the crowd were silent, mesmerised and bewildered because of it. 

Uncaring about the lack of response, Athos smirked at Porthos and took to the mic. "This one's for Aramis," he said with a nod in the direction of the bass player who was watching from the bar.

Porthos hadn't a bloody clue what was happening. His guitar felt like lead around his neck, but he knew he could go with the flow. The chords Athos began to play were jangly and not in his usual broken style, but Porthos soon picked them up. He only wished he knew what he was playing.

"In a bar in Toledo. Across from the depot. On a bar stool she took off her ring," sang Athos and Treville overhead clapped with approval.

The audience were getting into it and still Porthos had no idea what he was playing until they got to the chorus.

"You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille," sang Athos, wry humour turning to amazement when the whole crowd joined in with him. "With four hungry children and a crop in the field."

Porthos laughed. It was that old Kenny Rogers Country and Western classic sob story and soon they were joined on stage by Aramis and d'Artagnan, all four of them hamming it up and jamming at least three extra choruses out of the song. 

The crowd were alive, the applause was wild and when Athos went to leave the stage Porthos grabbed his arm.

"Stay," he said, receiving a nod of approval from the other boys. Athos was a Musketeer too. "You'll get the hang of it. Maybe you can unbounce us a bit."


	4. Chapter 4

"Shed rock went well today," said Athos as he and Porthos wandered back to the van on Sunday afternoon.

"It did." Porthos grinned at him. "I was really pissed off at Aramis when he was screwing with you, but I'm dead chuffed now he did." More than chuffed, to be honest. He and Athos rarely spent any time apart.

"Thank you for taking me under your wing." 

Athos smiled one of those shy smiles and Porthos briefly slipped an arm around his shoulder. "Any time," he said. "I like having you here."

They'd finished early today because Anne and Constance were moving into a flat together and Aramis and d'Artagnan had offered to help.

"I can't believe Aramis is still trying to get his feet under the table with Anne," said Porthos, shaking his head.

"He'll learn," said Athos darkly. 

Back at the van, Porthos put the kettle on as if it were his own home. To be honest, he was starting to think of it as such. He'd always looked down on all the losers who'd ended up renting here at the park, but it was nice: close to the river, close to town, cozy without feeling cramped.

"It'll be cold here in the winter," he said as he stole Athos' can of lager and replaced it with a mug of tea.

"I'll come crying to you when my nuts have icicles hanging off them," laughed Athos as he opened a pack of biscuits.

Porthos slotted into the bench seat and twisted around to make room for his guitar, strumming out a few chords and then humming along.

"That's nice," said Athos, looking up. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Porthos shrugged. "Just messing around with a few riffs."

Athos picked up his guitar and joined in. "Should go major, be really bright for a while."

"Then kill 'em with some sadness," laughed Porthos.

Lyrics came to him, images rather than memories and he scribbled them down in a frenzy, changing the odd phrase where Athos suggested it and tidying it up. He then looked down in amazement because, without even thinking about it, there was a fully formed song in front of him.

"Play it from the top?" suggested Athos and they did. It worked brilliantly in a shivers down the spine kind of a way.

Porthos stood up suddenly, banging his head in the process. "We have to do something with this now," he said. He was on the verge of hysteria and grabbed Athos by the hand to hurry him along. "Come on, mate." 

"Where are we going?" laughed Athos.

"My flat," said Porthos, stowing the lyrics sheet into his guitar case and bouncing on his toes. "Get a move on."

His bedsit was small and damp, with a pull down bed and a tiny bathroom and kitchen. It was all he could afford on his wages and Aramis had often suggested that the three friends should pool together and share a decent place, but Porthos didn't dare do this. He couldn't help but be slightly envious though when he went round to the flat Aramis shared with d'Artagnan, but that was how life had to be and there was no means of escaping it.

"Must be pretty cold here in the winter too," was the only remark Athos made about the state of his accommodation.

"Fucking freezing," agreed Porthos. "My icicles will probably beat yours in length."

"Bragging now, are we." Athos huffed with laughter and then looked around the room. "Fuck me, you've got a lot of equipment."

"That's why we're here," said Porthos. Music had been an obsession all his life. Every spare penny had gone towards his recording gear. "Welcome to my studiosit."

"You've never even mentioned it," said Athos.

"I mostly use it for my own mixes," said Porthos. "Can't fit everyone in here to record so we don't bother, but I need to get this new song down."

Athos nodded, opening his guitar case, and together they made music deep into the night.

"I'm going to be wrecked tomorrow," yawned Porthos several hours later.

"You're the one who insisted on getting it all done in one go," laughed Athos, readying himself to leave.

"It was going good," said Porthos, following him to the door. "It _was_ good, wasn't it?"

Athos turned and smiled and they were so close now that Porthos imagined he could feel warm breath on his skin. 

"It was amazing. See how well you can write when you let go."

"We write well together," insisted Porthos, because Athos was his catalyst. He couldn't do it without him.

"You underestimate yourself," said Athos and he reached out and laid his palm gently on Porthos' cheek.

Porthos was thrown, but he knew he wanted to make the moment last and was on the point of doing something about it when Athos walked away with a raised hand and a softly spoken: "Good night."

The next day, after work, they played the new song to Aramis and d'Artagnan, the four of them sitting by the river surrounded by acoustics, drinks and crisps.

"What do you think?" asked Porthos nervously. 

"We'll try it out on Wednesday," said Aramis with a grin. "Do it again. I need to work on a bass line."

With d'Artagnan using the body of his guitar for percussion they learned how to perform it as a group and this turned out to be one of those golden summer evenings, a rare and timeless oasis in life. 

"I like it here," said Athos, staring at the slow moving water. 

"We used to bunk off school and come down here to swim," said Aramis. "We nearly always got caught. I think Mr Edwards liked boy watching a little too much."

"Especially boys in wet underpants," laughed Porthos.

"He left under a cloud when I was in year eleven," said d'Artagnan.

"I like hearing about your shared history," said Athos. "Even if it's a bit paedo at times."

"Where do you come from?" asked Aramis, lounging back on his elbows.

"Around here," said Athos, gathering up tiny stones and throwing them into the water. "I went to boarding school though."

Porthos felt a bit awkward. He knew Athos spoke well, but he'd never thought of him as posh. He was too dishevelled.

"It wasn't a particularly good one," continued Athos. He turned and grinned at them. "But it had a great record for paedophilia. We had some of the top perverts in the country as teachers."

That newly formed layer of ice was broken, everyone laughed and they lay back in a row, staring up at the sky.

"What do you do all day, Athos?" asked d'Artagnan.

"Drink. Make cloud pictures. Drink some more."

"Not much of a career." Porthos propped himself up and looked over at Athos who raised an eyebrow at him in response.

"You should get a job," said d'Artagnan.

"I'm not tremendously employable," said Athos, waving a can of lager. "Stop nagging me, boy. Nag Porthos to write some more songs instead."

*

Summer progressed slowly. Some may have described it as dull, but to Porthos it was lingeringly beautiful. His entire time was taken up with his friends and their music. They talked about it all day long at work. They rehearsed more often now, and when the other two were busy with their girls, he and Athos wrote songs together at the caravan and then recorded them at his bedsit. They played twice a week at The Wren and Saturday night's open mic session had now been given over to The Musketeers as a permanent gig, much to Louis' disgust. Treville even payed them for their services.

"Porthos, we don't have to go so fast," said Athos, trying to catch up with him and grabbing his arm. "The song won't run away."

Porthos laughed and slowed down. "I know," he said slinging an arm around Athos' shoulders. "I just love this, you know. I love this so much."

"I know," said Athos and then he smirked. "But my point still stands."

The first sign of something being wrong was when Porthos saw that the door to his bedsit was open. Oh fuck, she was back and Athos was going to see her and know everything. 

"Wait here," he said urgently.

Athos looked at him, his eyes full of worry, but he nodded and did as he was asked.

"Mum," said Porthos cautiously, stepping inside his flat. "Mum, are you here?"

She did this to him a few times a year, showing up then demanding his attention and his money. Showing him up in front of his friends. He knew he should leave town, but this was his home and he was happy here. Anyway, she was his mum and at least this way he got to see that she was okay.

"Mum, where are you?" 

Sinking to his knees, he let out a wail of despair. Everything was gone. All his music equipment. His guitars. His keyboards. His computer. Everything. She'd taken everything. She'd not even come here to see him this time, just to take whatever she could sell.

Someone was holding him in safe arms, soothing him with quiet words. 

"Shh, Porthos. It's okay. Hush now."

Porthos had expected Athos to smell of musty hops and old sweat, but instead he was warm and clean and comforting, with just a tang of soap.

"We'll call the police."

"No point," muttered Porthos, pressing his face into Athos' neck, cushioning himself from the truth. "I'm not insured. I couldn't afford the monthly payments, and anyway I know who did it."

"Who?" asked Athos

Porthos pulled away from him and stood up, looking around the bedsit. It didn't take long to find the note. It was there by the kitchen sink, propped up on the drainer.

 _Sorry baby_ , was all it said in a messy scrawl. Not even a _love, Mum_ at the bottom.

"My mother," he said, sitting on the bed.

Athos sat next to him, pushing in close and grounding him with his presence, and suddenly Porthos felt safe enough to talk.

"She's a drunk," he said. "She's been an alcoholic all my life. I had to bring myself up. She was never in a fit state to do washing or cooking or cleaning so I did all that. But at least she was there and she hardly ever hit me."

Athos breathed in deeply and pulled Porthos into a hug. "Go on," he said.

"When I was fourteen she started going off places. At first she'd be back after a couple of days, but then it stretched out into weeks at a time. I didn't let anyone at school know. She'd leave me money and if she didn't then Aramis would take care of me. I got used to her not being around. When she came back-" Porthos swallowed, choking on the memories. "Sometimes she'd be fine. She'd bring me presents and she'd tell me everything was great. She'd lie and say she was going to take me on holiday and I'd believe her. I was a kid. I was naïve. Then when I got older and she came back she'd be in a gross state, permanently drunk, bloated from the booze, twisted and yellow, weird looking. Kind of like a monster. She'd beg me for money so then I'd give her some and she'd go." He twisted his fingers together. "I wanted her to leave." He looked at the note in his hands. "I never expected this. I never expected her to steal from me," he muttered. "Stupid eh? Stupid, that's me."

"You're not stupid," said Athos angrily. "Parents are shit. Fucked up parents are the worst." He looked around the room. "She's taken everything."

"Nope," said Porthos, more determined than ever to get through this. His heart might be broken, but he was used to that and he was not going to let his mother break any other part of him. He'd cried over her enough. "I've got my guitar and I've got the band and I've got you. That's all I'll ever need."

It turned out to be Athos who let out a single choked sob. "You're an amazing man."

This time Porthos wasn't going to let the moment slide. Inclining his head he kissed Athos softly, slowly on the mouth, a crooked finger under his chin. "You too."

They kissed again, arms locked around each other, mouths melded, tongues searching, but then Athos pulled away anxiously. "There are so many reasons we shouldn't be doing this."

"Name them," said Porthos, stroking the hair back from Athos' face.

"I'm a drunk and I'll hurt you."

Porthos kissed him again. "You're trying hard not to be and I trust you."

"I'm not your type, remember?" There was that shy smile again. "I’m guessing that means you're not gay."

"Oh, I'm very much gay." Porthos laughed. "Only my type is usually browner with more muscles."


	5. Chapter 5

Waking up with Athos in his arms, Porthos looked around him in shock. He was as empty as the room. Empty of all the pent up sadness and utter loneliness that had been his entire life. 

They'd done nothing more than kiss and talk all night. Porthos had purged himself, retelling every horrible story, every embarrassing incident, relieved that Athos had done nothing more than listen to him and prompt him occasionally to keep him talking. He'd been prone to nightmares for a long time, dreaming about the horrific things his mother had tried to do when he'd been older and she'd been desperate -- for attention as well as for money.

"You should move out of here," said Athos in a raspy voice, still full of sleep.

"Where? Into your caravan?" Porthos turned in the bed and smiled at him.

Athos blushed crimson. "Maybe another van in the park. They're not expensive to rent."

"But then I'll never get to see her," muttered Porthos, sinking into sadness.

"You won't see her when she's in a mess, I grant you," said Athos. "Nor should you." He sat up, holding Porthos' hand, stroking the other across his flank. "But I promise you this, when she realises what she's lost then she'll do her best to be a better parent. It may take years, but she _will_ do it."

"What if the drink kills her first?" said Porthos.

"Sobeit, but what I say still stands," said Athos. "She does love you; she just doesn't know how to do it well or properly."

Porthos listened to him, leaning into his touch and absorbing all of his kindness. He wondered what it was that had made a young man so wise and yet so careless with his own choices, but he was too tired to ask, selfishly happy, for now, to take advantage of that wisdom without question.

"And I'll try to be a better person for you," said Athos solemnly. "But can we see how I manage before we tell anyone about us?"

Porthos nodded in agreement. They'd take things slowly, a day at a time. A test run to see whether there was something more than close friendship between them. He'd never tried this before. His previous relationships had all been based on sex, one night stands leading to repeat performances, seedy fucks outside clubs and pubs in the city, keeping it away from his own backyard. His friends knew he was gay, but he was pretty certain no one else in town did.

Pulling Athos back into his arms, he dotted him with kisses. "I'll go and see the park manager this afternoon, after work," he said. "Find out if there are any caravans up for rental and then-" He paused for a moment, just looking at Athos and trying to take in the changes that had happened in such a short time.

"And then?" prompted Athos.

"We'll make some beautiful music together." 

Athos was full on laughing. "You're so naff," he gasped, laughing even more when Porthos tickled him, then pulled up his t-shirt and blew raspberries on his belly.

"Naff, am I?"

"Yeah," grunted Athos as Porthos spread over him, licking a path across his jaw and approaching his mouth. 

They kissed again, braving morning breath and unruly stubble, and remained locked together until the alarm jangled on Porthos' phone. 

"Damn," he murmured. "Work time."

"I prefer play time." Athos smiled up at him.

"We can do a lot of that later," said Porthos, getting out of bed. "But right now I have to go and trim some old lady's garden."

"Sounds disturbing." Athos sat up and smirked.

"Weirdo." Porthos stripped naked, nice and slow for the sake of performance.

"Show off," said Athos, but he was watching appreciatively nonetheless. "At least we're even now."

Porthos laughed at him from the bathroom. "You were _so_ wrecked that day."

"And rank, if I remember correctly."

"You _had_ just puked up a litre of vodka," said Porthos, lathering up and rinsing off. He'd never felt this comfortable with another person in his life. It was as if he and Athos were joined at the soul. "You should come in here with me," he added, his cock throbbing in his hand. "I'll show you how rank I find you now."

"I want to more than anything," said Athos from the doorway. "But I think we both need me to prove that I'm not a loser."

He sounded so low and lost that Porthos' erection faded immediately. Rinsing off for a final time, he got out of the shower cubicle, wrapped a towel around his waist and took Athos into his arms. "I like you," he said. "I like you a lot and you _do_ matter, not just to me but to a lot of other people here now. You're not a loser."

"Then there's no harm in letting me prove it," said Athos, kissing him firmly on the lips.

They walked into town together, grabbing take out coffees on the way and parting company at the ancient stone market cross where d'Artagnan and Aramis were waiting, arguing the toss with each other for something to do whilst they shared a bag of donuts.

"See you later," said Athos shyly as he wandered off towards the river.

"I'll meet you at yours," shouted Porthos and got the usual raised hand as response.

"What's up?" said Aramis and though it was a normal greeting Porthos wondered whether Aramis could see something different in them. The urge to kiss Athos goodbye was totally new and incredibly strong.

"I'm thinking of moving into the caravan park," said Porthos as they walked up the hill to the council depot.

"With Athos?" laughed d'Artagnan. "Don't you see enough of him already?"

"I'm not moving in with him," said Porthos. He wondered briefly what the reaction would be when their friends discovered that they _were_ going out together. 

"Bit soon eh?" smiled Aramis.

Porthos laughed, but it was an awkward sound that got stuck in his throat. "I had a visit from my mum yesterday."

Aramis immediately halted him with an arm and encouraged him over to a nearby bench. "Fuck, Porth. I'm sorry we weren't there for you. Tell us what happened."

D'Artagnan shuffled anxiously from foot to foot, looking at his watch. He hated being late for anything.

"Go and get the van," said Aramis. "Tell the boss you're picking us up on the way. "

D'Artagnan looked unsure.

"Don't worry, pup," said Porthos. "Nothing too dreadful happened this time." They knew a lot of the bad things. The very worst of it he had only ever told Athos.

"What happened?" said Aramis, tense and angry.

"She didn't even pretend she was here for me this time," said Porthos and all of a sudden he was that kid again and close to tears. He shook the pain off. "She robbed me. She took all my stuff. All of it, even that cheap, piece of shit microwave, and then she left me a fucking note to say sorry."

"Jesus, Porthos. Why the fuck wasn't I there?" Aramis was wracked with guilt.

"It's okay," said Porthos, slapping an arm down heavily across his best friend's back. "Athos was with me. I told him everything and he convinced me to move out."

"I've been telling you that for years," muttered Aramis.

"I know, mate, I know," said Porthos. "But before this happened she'd always pretended she was here to see me." He shrugged. "I mean in my heart I knew it was for money, but at least she'd _tell_ me she loved me. This time it was different. Athos reckons that she'll only make the effort to find me when she's sorted herself out."

"Or desperate enough to beg," said Aramis. "But I do think it's a good idea to get away. Now come here, buddy. I need a big hug from you and we're not going anywhere until I get one."

*

Saturday nights had been getting more and more busy lately, but this was ridiculous. The Wren was jam packed solid with bodies, far more people than should have legally been allowed in here, but seeing as the health and safety team from the council were also here, Porthos assumed it wasn't a problem. 

Instead of getting sick with nerves he was buzzed, the adrenaline filling him with energy. Standing by the side of the stage waiting to go on, he let his fingers brush against Athos' and received a half smile in return.

"It's crazy tonight," he said.

"Because you're fab and they love you," said Athos with a sudden grin.

"Because _we're_ fab and they love _us_ ," corrected Porthos, wishing Athos would believe he was a member of the band.

Their set now was varied, with changes of mood and pace. They'd worked out, through experience, how to give their fans the most enjoyment and playing for them now was great, like having a particularly amazing fuck with a spectacular multiple orgasm, if all the encores went to plan.

Tonight, though, the crowd were distracted at times and Porthos kept peering but was unable to spot what was going on. Finishing off with a final boot stomper of a song, the audience's favourite: Long Time No See, Porthos was about to race offstage for a pint of iced water when Treville blocked his way and moved up to the microphone.

"Hello everyone," he said with a grin. "You all know me." There was a loud round of applause and a call for free drinks "And apparently you want to put me out of business." Treville paused, waiting for them to quieten down. "You also know Porthos here, and as most of you are aware, he's been through a tough time recently."

Porthos blinked, wondering what the fuck was going on.

"So, Porthos," said Treville, his eyes crinkling up as he smiled at him. "We all wanted to help out." He passed him a large stetson which was filled, from crown to brim, with money. "This is to get you back on your feet, lad, and before you shout that big mouth of yours off, it isn’t about charity; it's because you're our friend. So shut up and take it."

Porthos stared at the audience, clutching the hat which had been thrust into his hands. "Thanks," he growled into the mic. "Thank you all loads. I'm shit at speeches and I never know what to say, but you guys are the best. Now if you'll excuse me I need to go kill my bandmates."

Coming offstage to a raucous round of applause, Porthos sank down into one of the seats Constance and Anne had been saving for them, the oversized hat resting on his knee.

"I _am_ going to kill you lot," he said. "You could have fucking warned me."

"Where's the fun in that? We wouldn't have got to see your surprised face then." With not enough chairs to go around, Athos put his guitar case down and squeezed in next to Porthos. "How much have you got?"

"I don't think I can count that high," said Porthos. There were loads of twenties and a lot of fifties as well, plus a cheque for five hundred pounds from his boss at the council offices.

"They had a whip round at work," explained Aramis. "All the people who couldn't make it tonight still wanted to give something."

"There's well over a thousand quid here," said Porthos in total confusion. "More like two."

"Lock it away safely in your guitar case and I'll escort you home," said Athos.

"As if you'd be much use as Porthos' bodyguard," laughed Treville when he brought over a tray of drinks, on the house. "He's the sober one with all the muscles. He’ll be protecting you."

Everyone laughed, but Porthos was still in too much of a state to do anything but stare at the wadge of money in his hand. "Thanks so much," he said, looking up at Treville. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll spend every penny of it on yourself and make that new place of yours into a home," said Treville. "That's all we ask."

Everything was arranged with the park manager. The deposit had been paid and he'd be moving, in a week's time, to a caravan, more run down than Athos’ but in a nicer position near the river. It had two bedrooms and he'd been planning on saving up for some new gear so he could turn one of them into a studio. Now, with this money, he could get started on that straight away.

"You'll be on eBay as soon as you get back," said Athos with a lopsided smile.

D'Artagnan had given him an old laptop he no longer had need of and Porthos was about to make good use of it. "Yep," he said. "You know me too well." But not well enough, he realised with a sudden burst of self knowledge. "Come and help me choose stuff," he said, adding in a low voice: "Come to bed with me."

He was certain he could feel Athos' heart thumping, or maybe it was his own. D'Artagnan was occupied with Constance. Aramis was sitting between the twins and glaring intermittently at Anne and Louis. No one had taken the slightest bit of notice of their quiet conversation and yet it seemed to Porthos as if they were on stage, kissing each other in front of the whole audience.

"Let's go now," said Athos urgently.

Porthos nodded and in his panic to get up he scattered twenty pound notes everywhere, scrambling to collect them and then locking his new treasure inside his guitar case.

"We're off," he said to the gang. "We're going to check out some keyboards and Macs on eBay."

He got a general nod rather than a big acknowledgment in response to this, which came as a surprise because he was certain that he'd announced, to all and sundry, that he was about to take Athos back to the bedsit and screw him through the mattress and as soon as they were outside, he let out a huge sigh: a mixture of relief, shock and gratitude. 

"I can't believe it," he said as they walked through the town. "Did that really just happen? You guys actually held a benefit for me?"

"We did," said Athos as he took hold and then kept hold of Porthos' hand. "You’re very much loved."

Porthos' pulse was racing as he unlocked the door to his room. It might not be a safe haven in here, but right now it was a sanctuary and, unable to resist any longer, he stripped Athos of his gig bag, stowing both their guitars carefully under the bed, and then shoved the man up against the wall, holding his wrists above his head and kissing him with unrestrained need.

"I reckon you've proved yourself well enough," he said, his voice a low growl.

"Hardly," said Athos. "But I can't wait any longer to fuck you."

Porthos stilled, his mouth resting against Athos' neck. This was an awkward moment and one he'd never encountered before. Sex had always been instinctive, hooking up and then falling naturally into the correct roles. He was a top; he didn't get fucked. He'd tried it, didn't like it at all, and that was that. Falling in love with Athos had complicated matters. What happened when two tops tried to get together? He loved frotting and blow jobs so he guessed it wouldn't be too much of a problem.

"What's the matter?" asked Athos. "You've gone all quiet on me."

"I don't bottom," admitted Porthos, hanging his head.

Athos laughed. "Then it's a good thing I do." He reached down and palmed Porthos' erection. "You dope," he said. "Why wouldn't I want this inside me? It'd be like having the starters without the main course."

Porthos was confused. "But you said-"

Athos leaned in, paused for a while an inch away from his mouth and then kissed him all hot and dirty. "I said I wanted to fuck you as in _have a fuck with you_. Don't be so literal."

"I'm a literal person," said Porthos, walking Athos backwards to the bed, encouraging him all the way with shoves of the hip. "What you see is what you get."

"And I like what I see very much indeed, so that pleases me greatly." 

Athos tumbled onto the mattress and Porthos knelt over him, pinning his arms above his head once again with one hand, then sucking kisses onto his neck, across his jaw and finally reaching his mouth.

"Are we really this lucky?" he said, kneeling up to examine his work with pride, taking in kiss swollen lips and eyes that were dark with arousal. He'd never wanted anyone so much and for it to be a man who'd fallen headlong into his life, bringing with him music and friendship, was incredible, verging on the impossible.

"I think we really are," said Athos, fighting to free one of his hands so that he could cup Porthos' face, thumb tracing his cheekbone. "We should make the most of it."

They submerged themselves in more of the kissing, bodies twined together as they struggled to free each other from clothes and shoes.

"We're not having sex with our bloody socks on," laughed Porthos, peeling both pairs off until they were finally naked at the same time.

"God, you feel good," sighed Athos as they lay pressed together, kissing, touching, talking.

"I love this," said Porthos, bracing himself then looking down at where their cocks rested snugly against one another.

"As much as making music?" said Athos, his eyebrow raised.

"Yep," growled Porthos, bucking his hips. "We'll have to alternate from now on, a song then a fuck."

"Could get messy on stage," smirked Athos.

It was right then, at that specific moment, Porthos knew for certain that Athos was the ideal man for him in every single way. "They'll have to put up with it." He grinned. "One free sex show with every gig."

He worked his way downwards, kissing every inch of that slim, pale body. There was an auburn tint to Athos' hair and his skin was peppered with freckles. "I've never been with a ginger before," he said, teasing him with more strategically placed kisses.

'I'm not ginger," said Athos, his eyes widening with shock. With a surprising display of strength, he rolled them over until he was astride Porthos and ready for some exploration of his own, by the the look of things. 

“Gingerish,” grinned Porthos.

“Brown.” Athos was actually pouting. It was the sweetest thing ever. “Darkish brown.”

“With a hint of red,” added Porthos, stretching upwards to nip at that pouty mouth.

Athos conceded with a tilt of the head. "Actually, now you come to mention it, I've never been with a black guy." He traced the design of Porthos’ tattoos with the tip of his tongue. "You're beautiful."

He said it so reverently and when he bent his head to take him into his mouth it was with such awe that Porthos reeled, dizzy from this amalgam of sex and love and friendship. "Not yet," he murmured after a while when Athos was heavily into the blow job, laving him with the flat of his tongue and then taking him in deep.

They switched places once again, Porthos kneeling between Athos' spread legs, stroking his cock and playing with the foreskin, fascinated by the way that glistening pink knob was revealed each time. He bent his head and tasted him, sucking up the stream of sweet precome and watching as more oozed out. "You’re wet," he remarked, licking his lips in approval. "Must make wanking good fun."

"It does." Athos smiled up at him, totally relaxed in his company. 

"Show me while I finger you," said Porthos, stunned that this was so easy. Being with Athos was like being by himself with company.

Blushing a little, Athos wrapped a palm around his cock and began to jerk off. It was such a gorgeous sight that Porthos was transfixed, watching the super slick passage of his hand and the peekaboo appearance of that knob.

After a few minutes of this Athos coughed. "Aren't you supposed to be getting me ready for a fuck, rather than just having a toss?"

Porthos looked down in surprise. He hadn't even been aware that he was joining in with the show. Audience participation. "Oops," he said with a grin, leaning forward and scrabbling around in the drawer for some lube.

All slicked up, he added some gel to his other palm then reached out to Athos, touching between his legs, circling and then pushing in. Athos was incredibly responsive, bearing down on him, writhing along with the movements, moaning softly and fucking himself on Porthos' fingers. All the time be kept up a solid stroke, the slip-slide squelch a huge turn on, as was that flushed skin and too fast breathing.

"Ready?" rasped Porthos, movements becoming erratic, close to the edge.

"Please." Athos stared up at him, his hand whipping over his cock.

Porthos fumbled in the drawer and came back empty. Sitting up, he searched thoroughly, but there were no condoms in there, not even a stray one at the back. He hurried over to the wardrobe and checked coat pockets in case there were some that he’d forgotten about, but no. Nothing. "Please say you've got a condom on you," he muttered.

Athos shook his head and laughed. "We shouldn't have been in so much of a hurry."

Groaning, Porthos sank down onto the bed. There was a machine in The Wren toilets. They'd walked straight past the garage which would have still been open at that time. So much for planning. "It wasn't as if I didn't have the money to pay for them," he said and then he began to laugh. "I'm sorry. What can I say? I'm a dick."

"If you're a dick then I'm also a dick."

"We're a pair of dicks," agreed Porthos. 

"A pair of tits would make more sense," said Athos thoughtfully. "Dicks don't generally come in pairs."

That was it for Porthos. It was too funny and he creased up with laughter. "Yeah they do," he gasped. "All over each other, which is what we'll have to make do with tonight."

"Extra entrées to make up for the lack of a main," smirked Athos as he snaked his way down Porthos' body.

With his fingers threaded loosely into Athos' hair, Porthos raised himself up a little, resting on an elbow. He loved the feel of that mouth, the sight of that head bobbing up and down, offering occasional glimpses of a pretty face. They'd already had two disaster moments tonight and were still edging towards perfect.

"Come here," he said, dragging Athos off his cock before it was too late.

A fuck up, this might be, but Porthos was enjoying it way too much to let it be over so soon. This time it was Athos grinding against him, sliding from side to side and then thrusting his hips. All the time his mouth was busy, biting at each nipple then soothing them with gentle cat licks, sucking at Porthos' skin until he was a nexus of marks. Clasping his hand around Athos' bum, Porthos held him close and rutted up against him, their bodies crashing, clashing in the same way as their music and then becoming something just as imperfectly wonderful.

Stilling for a moment, Athos looked at him, his eyes soft with feeling, the rest of him raging hard. He dipped down for a kiss which, driven by sex, became animal in its greed and, wrapped around each other, they gave into it and rubbed themselves off to climax. It was good. It was monumentally fucking good, even without the main course. 

“Can I stay?” asked Athos.

“I wouldn’t let you escape even if you wanted to,” said Porthos, rolling him over in the bed, tickling him, nipping at him, teasing him until he was sobbing with laughter and begging for mercy.

It was the first day, since they'd known each other, that Athos hadn’t had a single drink and Porthos was so fucking proud of the man, but he wasn’t going to say anything. He didn’t want to jinx this.


	6. Chapter 6

"This is bloody awful," said Porthos, staring out of the window as rain lashed the panes. "Why now when I have all my stuff to pack up?"

"Stop grumbling," said Athos, sitting next to him. "There's still three days until you move out. The storm will have blown over by then." He rummaged in his pocket. "I have something here to cheer you up." He waved the pack of condoms in front of Porthos' nose. "Ribbed for my pleasure."

Porthos snorted with laughter then pushed Athos back onto the bed until they were cuddling. "D'you mind if we wait until I move into my new place?” he asked. “I kind of want to christen it and us properly." He hid himself in Athos' neck, feeling the rising heat of a blush. 

"As long as you don't have plans to carry me over the threshold." Athos put the condoms back in his pocket then twisted around to get comfortable in Porthos' arms. "This is the life."

Porthos snuggled in, kissing Athos' neck and breathing in his scent which was completely untainted now. He'd gone five days without a drink and was showing no signs of suffering. "Can we stay here?"

Athos shook his head and looked at his watch. "Half an hour and then we have to get ready for open mic."

"The boys don't need us," said Porthos. "They can be an experimental drum and bass duo." He tugged at the heavy belt on Athos' jeans, pulling the leather free of the buckle, then unbuttoning the flies. "I want to play with you not them," he added, hooking Athos' cock free of his pants until it slapped wet against his belly, ready for action. "I swear you have an on switch," he laughed.

"I do," said Athos tucking his hands behind his head and lying there lazy and licentious, a puddle of precome pooling on his stomach. "It's called you."

"I like that," said Porthos undoing his own jeans and letting his cock out to play. Clambering aboard, he weighed up the options and decided on a quick frot. 

The banter ended as soon as their important parts made contact, Athos looping an arm around him and pulling him close until their mouths were brushing together, teasing each other with the promise of kisses. 

"I've changed my mind," said Porthos as Athos arched up against him. "I want to fuck you."

"Let's wait until we have more time," said Athos and Porthos swept the fringe away from his eyes and gazed at him, lovestruck.

Late to The Wren, they made their excuses and hurried up to the stage to help finish setting up. Porthos was quiet, still reeling, wondering how a dirty little frot could turn into an hour of incredible fun with as many pace changes as their set but just the one spectacular ending. He'd never been in love before and wondered if this was why it was so good.

"Stop looking at my arse," murmured Athos in an aside. "They'll all know."

"They'll have to find out soon," said Porthos. "I can't keep this amount of happy locked away inside. I'll explode."

"You just did." Athos arched an eyebrow. "All over me."

Porthos laughed. "Seriously though," he said. "I know it's not been that long, but I want to tell everyone about us. It feels weird to hide it. Like we're doing something wrong."

"We will soon," promised Athos. "I have to make sure you're a good fuck before I commit myself."

"Cheeky bastard." Porthos grinned. "I'm an amazing fuck."

"Stop whispering in the corner and help me with the PA," shouted Aramis, interrupting what was fast becoming a overheated moment for both men.

"Later," said Athos, a wicked smile on his face.

It was after their first set, when Louis was onstage and they were all seated as far away as possible in the collection of mismatched easy chairs in the window, that something strange happened. Athos, who had been joking around with everyone up until then, suddenly stood up.

"Back in a sec," he muttered and Porthos assumed he needed a piss, but instead of heading for the toilets he turned left and strode out of the pub. 

Constance and d'Artagnan were in a better position to see what was going on and Aramis, as unsubtle as ever, moved to take over Athos' seat which had the best view of all.

"He's talking to a woman in a Mercedes," he said. "I can't see much of her. Oh wait, she's getting out. God, it's really pissing down out there."

Constance, equally as nosy, switched positions and perched on the radiator cover in front of the window. "She's really pretty in a hard sort of way. Oh."

"What?" said Porthos, who had no intention of being so obvious. 

"She's opened the passenger door and there's a baby in a car seat."

Porthos wasn't going to jump to conclusions. Athos was gay. Or was he bi? Thinking back, he wasn't entirely sure if they'd ever had that conversation, but if Athos had a child then surely he'd have mentioned it?

"I can't see much of the baby," said Constance, "but the woman's giving Athos a box of some sort and now they both look really sad."

"It's the rain," said Aramis. "People always look sad in the rain."

"It's not the rain," said d'Artagnan, peering out of the window. "She's driving off now and he's just standing there."

Porthos couldn't take any more of the running commentary and stood up abruptly. "I'm going to see if he's okay."

Aramis smiled. "He looks as if he needs a friend. Be gentle with him, Porth. I know you always are, but something's up."

Porthos nodded. He had a feeling extra soft kid gloves would be required tonight. They may both need handling with care if what he suspected turned out to be true. 

The rain was coming down heavier than ever and he paused at the door, steeling himself for whatever black holes and revelations might be on the way.

"Athos?" he said tentatively, wishing they weren't standing in front of a picture window with all their friends looking out at them, as if they were reality television.

Athos was clutching a red plastic box folder, staring at it as if it were boobytrapped.

"What's that?" Porthos asked.

"Just some things she wanted me to have before she went."

"She?"

"My ex wife," said Athos in a dull voice. "She's moving to New York with her family."

Porthos could see now why he was so upset. "The baby's yours?"

Athos looked startled and shoved the plastic folder inside his leather bomber jacket then zipped it up. He was choked up when he spoke next. "No, he's not mine."

Porthos didn't yet know the details, but it was looking very much like that messy, love story gone wrong which he had always suspected lay at the heart of Athos' angst. Why did it have to re-emerge now when they were so fucking happy together?

"Come back inside," he coaxed. "We'll finish up here then go home and talk some more."

Athos shook his head. “Sorry,” he said.

“Sorry what?” asked Porthos with a frown. “What are you sorry for?”

Athos looked down at his feet. "Do you mind if I miss the last set?" he said in a monotone. "There's someone I need to see."

"See them later," said Porthos, clutching at Athos' forearm. "I'll come with you. We'll borrow d'Artagnan's van."

"I have to go now," said Athos, shaking free and stumbling away, despite the fact he hadn't been drinking.

“Athos, wait!” Porthos tore his eyes away from the departing figure and looked through the window of The Wren to see Aramis and d'Artagnan standing next to the stage. Constance was gesticulating to him wildly and he was so close to chasing after Athos, but he couldn't abandon his friends. They'd held him together for years, patching him up with laughter and kindness when he'd hit rock bottom, certain that he couldn't go on.

The pub was warm and cosy when he went back inside, a comforting contrast to the bleakness of the real world.

"Athos has other things to do," he muttered as he took to the stage. "We'll have to finish with our original set."

"It'll be just like the old days," said Aramis as d'Artagnan counted them in.


	7. Chapter 7

Porthos had been looking forward to moving into the caravan park with a level of excitement only previously seen in cheesy Christmas movies. Now, as each day passed with no sign of Athos, his exuberance had dwindled down to minus numbers.

The big day arrived. As predicted, the storm had blown over and Aramis and d'Artagnan were here, ready to load boxes into the Transit. Porthos watched them work, unmotivated and sitting on the bare mattress of the pull down bed.

"Come on, buddy," said Aramis. "We'll get your stuff over to the van, set you up and then see what else you need. We'll have tons of time to go shopping if you shift your arse and get a move on." His voice dropped in volume. "You _will_ see your mum again. I promise."

Porthos breathed in deeply and pulled himself together. He wished that he'd never hidden his feelings for Athos from his friends, because at least then they'd know the real reason for his desolation. If he admitted it now, the whole thing would seem weird, sordid somehow, which it wasn’t, although it could never be described as love.

He had to face facts that the man was probably gone from his life for good. He'd arrived in town as one of those transient drunks--many had passed through here over the years--and now that he'd been found out he'd returned to his real life. It had been a good couple of months--making music and making out--and Porthos resigned himself to storing Athos away in the good side of his memory palace.

"Right," he said, hefting the largest of the cardboard boxes into his arms. "Let's get these shifted before the rain starts up again."

Having given his new mobile home a thorough clean inside and out, Porthos viewed it with pride. Just as he'd thought, it was going to be a great place to live. It was in a secluded spot and it even had a little balconied patio area where he could sit outside and strum away to his heart's content.

Aramis' mum, a brilliant cook, had provided him with loads of kitchen equipment and Constance had made new curtains for all the windows. The tatty carpet was covered in bright rugs, the banquettes filled with a mismatch of cushions and it was easy to see that the women had had a big hand in it, for which Porthos would always be grateful because they'd turned it instantly from a metal box into a home.

"I thought you might need these," said Treville, carrying in a couple of portable heaters. "I bought them when the pub got flooded a couple of years ago to dry the place out."

"Thanks," said Porthos, shocked at the generosity everyone was showing him once again. 

You’re welcome," said Treville. “I don’t need them any longer.” Then he added quietly: “He _will_ be back.”

"Like my mum?" Porthos had been wondering what kind of a person he must be to successfully repel all those he cared about.

"Athos is nothing like your bloody mother," said Treville and with that he patted Porthos on the shoulder and left abruptly.

Finally everything was unpacked. The extra helpers had gone, the grocery shopping was done, and now that the refrigerator and cupboards were stocked with food, the boys behaved as boys always did and ordered a takeaway.

Eating slices of pizza out of greasy cardboard boxes, they sat around the living area watching a marathon of Peep Show when finally Aramis broached a difficult subject.

"I suppose we need to re-jig the setlist for tomorrow night," he said with a shrug.

"Yep," agreed d'Artagnan, wiping a string of mozzarella off his chin. "It doesn't seem right to play any of his songs." He looked at Porthos. "Do you still want to do the ones you and he co-wrote, Porth? Aramis could sing them with you."

"I dunno," said Porthos, picking off black olives and putting them to one side. "Yeah, actually, I do. They're mine as much as his. We'll have a run through tomorrow and see how it goes and then decide." He paused. "He might still turn up?"

No one said a word. 

Three different setlists were worked out as a contingency plan, and after that Aramis and d'Artagnan left Porthos alone to familiarise himself with his new environment and unpack some of his personal stuff. Not in the mood for doing anything productive, he spent the next hour staring at the telly, then he realised how tired he was and headed for the bedroom.

It was nice in here, the blue duvet and curtains not cold the way he'd thought they might be, but more the colour of the river on a summer's day. He liked it. The mattress was as soft as a pillow--d'Artagnan's mum had donated one of her old ones--and as he flopped back on it he couldn't help thinking about Athos and the things they'd been planning to do their first night here.

Undressing down to his boxers he slid under the quilt, waiting, hoping for a knock at the caravan door that never came.

*

Although there was nothing precisely _wrong_ with the way Aramis and Porthos sounded singing the newer songs together, nobody could deny that there was something missing, a jagged, rather broken piece that slotted in perfectly and roughened them up.

"We’ll go back to the original set then," said Aramis, unplugging the lead from his bass amp and coiling it up.

D'Artagnan looked at the clock. "We'd better get the stuff loaded into the van, or else-"

"We'll be late," chorused the other two, ruffling d'Artagnan's hair and tickling him until he yelled blue murder and squirmed away from them.

By the time they arrived at The Wren the punters were already stacked up at the bar, three deep, waiting for drinks.

"I'm going to have to employ more staff at this rate," grumbled Treville as he watched his part time bartender, Serge, amble around at a snail's pace, a Vapestick in his mouth as he slowly but slowly whittled down the queue, serving at the steady rate of a customer an hour. "Know anyone who needs a job?"

Athos was the only person who sprang to Porthos' mind, unsuitable for two reasons: alcohol dependency and not being here. 

Queue jumping, Aramis got the drinks in and, with the usual pint of Coke in his hand, Porthos wandered over to the window seats, staring relentlessly up and down the street.

"I don't think he's coming, love," said Constance, squeezing his hand. "You might have to make a backup plan."

"We already have," said Porthos, but it didn’t stop him searching for an annoying git with an out of control fringe that desperately needed trimming.

At five to eight they took to the stage, tuning up and sticking setlists to the monitors and plectrums to the mic stands. 

"All for one," said Aramis with a quick nod at the other two, and once again The Musketeers were back to their original three.

For some strange reason, it took on the cheerful atmosphere of a reunion gig and they rose to the occasion brilliantly, never having played better as a trio. The crowd loved it, jumping up and down from start to finish, so much so that the floor felt as if it were a trampoline rather than solid wood, but for Porthos there was something missing and, looking around at the other two, he knew he wasn't the only one who felt that way.

Half way through their second set of the night Porthos noticed Aramis' expression change and, following his line of sight, he looked over at the bar where Treville was talking to a couple of uniformed cops from the local station. 

"Complaints about the noise maybe?" suggested Aramis, in between songs.

Porthos shrugged. It didn't seem likely as they were in a commercial part of town and the few residents who lived in the vicinity must have grown used to the music by now. When Treville pushed through the crowd to get to the stage it seemed the only logical answer, but then Porthos glanced back at the bar and noticed that one of the policeman was carrying a red box folder. It must be a coincidence. Surely.

Ushering them over to him, Treville leaned in to talk quietly. "Sorry to interrupt, boys, but there's a bit of a problem and the coppers here were hoping you might be able to help." He hooked an arm around Porthos' shoulder. "It's Athos."

Porthos' blood ran cold. "What about him?"

"He's apparently been on one hell of a bender,” said Treville. “He's badly drunk and he's hanging off the Postern bridge. There are policemen there with him, but no one's been able to talk him down."

Without need for words, the three of them abandoned their instruments and raced out of the pub, piling into d'Artagnan's Transit. 

Porthos leant against Aramis, head lolling back and eyes closed, lost in thought. The Postern wasn't famous for suicides. It was a long, relatively low road bridge spanning the river and linking the main part of the town with its more industrial areas, but it was dangerous enough for teenagers to be warned away from it in the summer months and there had been quite a few deaths over the years. Now, with the river running high and fast from the recent storms, it would be more lethal than usual, especially for a drunk.

"What the fuck does he think he's doing?" groaned Porthos. He'd had enough of this with his mother. "I don't need this kind of crap in my life."

"We'll find out soon enough," said d'Artagnan as a policeman directed them onto the closed off lane of the bridge. 

As soon as the Transit had pulled over, Sergeant Baker poked his head in through the driver's side window. "Sorry, to bother you, lads, but I know he's a friend of yours and we're having no luck talking sense into him. I don’t even know what his intentions are. I hope you can help."

"You lot stay here," said Porthos as he followed Aramis out of the van. "Let me talk to him."

Athos was a forlorn looking figure, swaying slightly from side to side and mumbling to himself. Somehow, he'd climbed down to the superstructure below, a gantry used for maintenance, and was sitting precariously on the railings.

"Whatever you do, don't try and get down to where he is," warned the policeman. "Just talk to him from the footpath."

Porthos was about to walk along the bridge when Aramis blocked his way. "I know you like him, Porth, but he's not your responsibility," he said, fingers closing around his wrist. "You don't have to try and save everyone."

The words were kind and made a lot of sense, but the thought that he might not be able to save Athos was too much and shaking Aramis off, Porthos strode over to where yet another policeman was marking the spot. How many coppers were there in this town, he wondered. They were crawling out of the woodwork now that something juicy was happening. They hadn't been much interested in him when he was young and needed help.

"Leave us be so I can talk to him," said Porthos. "He's more likely to listen to me if we're alone."

The policeman called in the request over the radio and as soon as it was agreed, he nodded to Porthos. "The sergeant says don't do anything stupid."

Porthos waited for everyone to depart and then leant over the railings. "Athos," he called, keeping his voice low and steady. "It's just us. Just you and me. Tell me what's wrong." As Athos looked around, his balance failed him and for a horrible moment Porthos thought he was going to fall. "Careful now," he said. "Talk to me."

Athos scraped a hand through his hair and groaned as if he were in actual, physical pain. "It’s my son," he said in a slur of words. "It was his birthday and I forgot. I forgot all about him."

Porthos felt vaguely let down by this. "It happens," he said. He was disappointed in Athos for so many reasons. For lying to him. For running away. For getting drunk off his face. For being too much like his fucking mother. "There'll be other birthdays."

"No." Athos choked, the word a retch of self pity.

"I know they'll be in New York," said Porthos. "And you won't see him as much, but if you sort yourself out and get a job you can still fly over there for holidays. It's not the end of the world."

"The baby isn't mine," said Athos, sounding so clear and so focused that Porthos would never be entirely convinced that what happened next was an accident. 

Without letting out a single sound of distress, Athos slid from the railings, falling into the darkness with a splash, and Porthos instinctively followed him, swan diving into the river and narrowly missing the guard rail of the gantry as he did so. The water was an icy blackness and, even though he was a strong swimmer, Porthos could feel the undertow capturing him as his jeans became saturated and heavy. Kicking off his trainers, he searched downstream, making out a dark shape a few meters ahead of him. He struck out in that direction, skimming his way through the water, reaching for Athos and missing, then reaching again and this time grabbing a handful of t-shirt.

For a moment Athos fought him off and then as Porthos got a firmer grasp, remembering some life saving techniques, the man went limp and relaxed in his arms.

"You won't fucking die like this, if that’s what you were planning," said Porthos as he heaved him up onto the river bank with brute force and then followed him out of the water. "You'll just get cold and wet and even more miserable than you already are."

Athos stared at him, partially illuminated by the light from the road. The sudden shock of the icy water had sobered him up, but he still looked utterly defeated.

"You were wrong," he said. "There won’t be any more birthdays to celebrate. Her baby isn't my son." He collapsed down onto his knees and then fell forward, lying prone on the grass. "We did have a child together. His name was Thomas and he died in a car accident three years ago. He would have been six last week and I forgot all about him."

Porthos stilled for a moment, not sure how to respond, then he reached for that cold, soggy body, hauling him into his arms and rocking him like the baby that had been lost. His eyes were wet, blurred from every kind of water and he couldn't focus on anything but Athos. "Fuck, I'm so sorry," he murmured and now that he'd started, he found he couldn't stop talking nonsense. "That’s horrible. You should have told me. I'm here for you now. I'm here. I promise."

Beams of light appeared from nowhere. There were voices from above and they were covered by sheets of thin silver insulating blankets, but still the only thing in Porthos' world was Athos. When their mouths brushed together there may have been a sharp hiss of surprise from nearby, but that didn't deter them from kissing and it may have been rank with river water and tears and whisky, but it was necessary.

"So, you two are going out together?" said Aramis.

"Yeah," said Porthos, his voice muffled, face buried against Athos' wet hair. "Us two are going out together."

"Way to tell everyone," said d'Artagnan. "Talk about dramatics."


	8. Chapter 8

Sergeant Baker tried, without success, to persuade them both into having a check up at the hospital, but seeing as services were overstretched and neither of them had been in the water for more than a couple of minutes he eventually gave up and agreed to let Athos go home, under supervision, provided he agreed to some counselling.

"Drinking and depression aren't things to be taken lightly, young man," said the policeman. "They cause no end of problems for a lot of people. Not just yourself."

"I know," said Athos sullenly.

"There was good reason," explained Porthos. "And I'll look after him, I promise." The after effects of this were weird. He felt excitable, adrenalised. As much trouble as Athos could be, he was overjoyed to have him back.

"I don't doubt you will," said the police sergeant with a wry smile. "I'll drop you two off the park." He looked at the beaten up Transit parked at the side of the road. "There's not enough seats for four of you to travel safely in that death trap and we don't want any further incidents tonight."

With Athos now in the police car, Aramis and d'Artagnan dragged Porthos to one side for a quiet chat.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" asked d'Artagnan. "You said earlier that he was the last thing you needed."

Porthos looked at the hunched shape in the back of the car and felt such a swell of affection that he was momentarily struck dumb. Words failing him he looked at both his friends in turn, trying to convey to them how much he needed Athos in his life. "He's everything I want," he said when he could finally speak. It was little more than a whisper. "He's part of me."

"But will that part be any good for you?" asked Aramis, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pacing up and down. "I'm worried, Porthos. I like the guy a lot, but I think you see all the wrong things in him. In my opinion, you're replacing one drunken disaster with another."

Porthos shivered. He was freezing and his bare feet were like blocks of ice, but that wasn't the problem. Was he looking for a substitute parent? Surely not. "It wasn't just a bender he was on tonight," he said in a low voice. "Believe me, I was as angry with him as you are, but there were reasons for what he did." He shoved his hands into wet jeans pockets and looked down at his toes. "I like him, Aramis. I really like him. If I can can give him another chance then please say you'll do the same."

"You know I'd do anything for you, you pillock," said Aramis, pulling him into a hug.

"Me too," said d'Artagnan, joining the huddle of bodies.

"But understand this." Aramis stabbed a fingertip at Porthos' chest. "If he hurts you again then I will kill him."

"Me too," said d'Artagnan.

"I know." Porthos smiled, hoping to reassure them both. "Thanks guys. I love you."

"Love you too, bro," said Aramis. "Now go home and get warm and naked with your man."

"That sounds good," said Porthos, getting into the back of the police car and slamming the door. It sounded very good indeed.

Athos looked up at him anxiously. "You didn't tell them about Thomas, did you?"

"No," said Porthos, reaching for Athos' hand. "That bit's up to you."

"Thank you," said Athos and Porthos leaned in to kiss him chastely on the lips.

"Enough of that," said a stern voice from the front of the car. "Now which caravan am I heading for?"

"Mine," said Porthos. He very much doubted there'd be any sex going on tonight, but at least they could christen the place with kisses, cuddles and talking.

"Right you are," said the police sergeant, starting the engine.

In ten minutes time they were home, parked up outside Porthos' van. "Don't forget to speak to your GP about counselling," said Baker as he let them out of the car, to which Athos mumbled something noncommittal in response.

"He won't," said Porthos, searching in wet pockets for the keys and relieved to find they were still there, along with a very soggy wallet. "Thanks, Sergeant Baker. We'll be fine now."

Athos said nothing and as soon as they were safely inside the van Porthos rounded on him, telling him off for his poor behaviour. "You do realise they had half the local force mobilised trying to stop you doing something stupid. They tried to talk you down. They came to fetch us. They were brilliant and yet you couldn't even be bothered to look at the sergeant, let alone thank him."

Athos said nothing, just stood there shivering and miserable and Porthos' heart went out to him. "Let's get out of these wet things, have a shower and go to bed." He paused. "You do want to go to bed with me?"

"I do," said Athos in a small voice. "Very much indeed."

Squeezed into the cubicle, they rubbed life back into frozen bodies, non sexual and care giving, and it allowed Porthos some extra thinking time so that he could finally decide whether this was the right thing to do. In the end it was a no brainer. Sensible or not, this _was_ what he wanted. 

With their wet clothes bagged up ready to take to the park launderette in the morning, Porthos dug out some sweatpants and a t-shirt for Athos to wear as pyjamas and then carried through cups of tea.

"I should have made toast," he said, getting into bed. "I bet you haven't eaten since you've been off on a binge."

"I'm fine," said Athos wearily. "Though I am the loser we both suspected I was."

"No," said Porthos, leaning up on an elbow and tracing a finger over Athos' distinctive features. "Just sad. Everyone's allowed to be sad."

"Don't make excuses for me," said Athos, looking away. "My ex gave me a folder full of photographs of Thomas. Copies of his birth certificate, death certificate, that kind of thing. I went to his grave to tell him I was sorry and then I got drunk and lost the bloody lot."

"No, you didn't," said Porthos, rubbing his shoulder in reassurance. "The police had the folder. They left it with Treville at The Wren."

"Thank christ," said Athos with utter relief. "I felt so bad I couldn't bring myself to go through it. I haven't seen a photo of him for three years. I tried really hard to remember him alive, but I could only picture what his little body looked like after the accident." He failed to suppress a painful sob of despair.

They clung together, both of them broken for different reasons. Was this really a good thing, wondered Porthos as he held on tightly, but then Athos turned to look at him and he knew for certain it was. Their kisses were gentle at first, small presses of lips, fervent and heartfelt, but as Athos rolled on top of him things soon heated up. Jog pants and boxers were shoved down and they kissed and touched, bodies shifting endlessly, pushing each other to a new level of emotional high.

"I love you," gasped Porthos as he bucked upwards and came. Fuck, he'd only gone and said it, and at a really bad time too. Talk about adding to a pressure situation. 

Everything was silent as Athos stared down at him in confusion. "Did you mean that?" he asked finally. "Or was it just a thing you say sometimes?" He was hard, his cock jerking against Porthos' thigh, soaking wet with a mixture of come and precome, and he looked so dazed that Porthos fell deeper into this undiscovered and highly dangerous territory.

"Course I meant it," he muttered. "Wouldn't have said it if I didn't." He wore his heart on his sleeve. "I love you."

Athos whimpered and forged against him, lavishing him with kisses then arching back as he climaxed in a flood of come and words. "I'm sorry. I love you too, Porthos. I didn't mean to- I'm sorry."

Disbelief turned to relief and the tiny smile lurking at the corner of Porthos' lips soon evolved into a Cheshire Cat grin. "How about less of the apologising and more of the mushy stuff next time," he said and then he let loose a whoop of pleasure and twisted them around until he was on top. "I love you," he said, punctuating each word with a kiss. "Now you have another go at it."

Athos blushed crimson and gazed up at him. "I love you," he said. "Thank you for saving me."


	9. Chapter 9

"If you're trying to make us late for practice then you're going the right way about it," said Porthos, unwinding Athos' arms from about his neck and carefully detaching from his mouth. "They won't be angry with you."

"They will be, even if they don't show it," muttered Athos, pulling on a clean t-shirt. 

"Maybe a little, but they'll get over it." Porthos zipped up Athos' guitar bag and handed it to him. "Now stop faffing about and get a move on."

As Athos was tying his shoelaces, there was a sharp knock at the caravan door and Porthos opened it to see Treville's stern face looking up at him from the step. Without waiting for an invitation, the man strode in. "Can't be long," he said. "It's good to see you limpets have finally bothered to come out."

Porthos wondered how Treville always seemed to know everything.

The man stood in front of Athos and glared down at him. "Don't fuck Porthos around again or you'll have me to answer to." He handed Athos the box file. "I assume these are important to you, lad, so take better care of them. Take better care of everything."

Athos cradled the folder against his chest. "I will. Thank you."

"I'll be off then," said Treville and was gone before Porthos could blink.

"Can we look through this together after rehearsal?" said Athos, looking up at Porthos, his eyelashes dark and wet. "I don't think I can face it on my own."

Porthos crouched in front of him, taking the folder and placing it carefully on the table. "Of course we can, love," he said, holding Athos' hands and kissing each one in turn. "Anything you want. I'm yours to command." The flare of heat in those green eyes was a good sign and Porthos laughed and sprang to his feet, pulling Athos with him until they were hugging. “Later. Musketeers come first.”

As unwilling as a schoolboy in detention, Athos dragged his feet all the way to d'Artagnan's house, muttering and trying to come up with a million excuses not to go. 

"And I thought you were a man," laughed Porthos, letting them in through the back gate. "It turns out you're a tiny little mouse."

"Fuck off," smirked Athos. "Maybe not big and mighty like you, but certainly not little or tiny."

"Big and mighty, am I?" preened Porthos, grabbing his crotch then swaggering playfully up to the shed. He sneaked a final quick kiss before they went in, just as reassurance. "You'll be fine."

"I feel like a prat."

"That's because you are one," said Aramis, opening the door.

"I thought this place was supposed to be soundproofed," muttered Athos.

"It is," said d'Artagnan with a grin. "Badly though because I did it myself."

"Now before we get started, let's go through some new ground rules," said Aramis, leaning against the padded wall and folding his arms. "You." He glared at Athos. "Don't mess Porthos around, or d'Artagnan and I will slaughter you. Understand?"

Athos nodded meekly and Porthos laughed. "He's already had one shovel talk today from Treville."

"Good," said Aramis. "This next section applies to you both." He looked daggers at them in turn. "There'll be no endless snogging sessions at rehearsals, or quick fucks backstage." Athos looked positively scandalised by this and Porthos snorted with laughter. "More importantly," continued Aramis. "You don't involve us in your domestics. If you have a fight then you sort it yourselves and don't make it a Musketeers problem. Swear?" 

"Hand on heart," said Porthos and Athos pressed his fist to his chest.

Aramis strode up and stood in front of Athos, feet planted, hands on hips, his stance defiant in every way. "Most important of all," he said. "You look after yourself better and you let us look after you too." He held Athos' face in his hands and kissed each cheek firmly. "Porthos says there was good reason for what happened and I trust him, but no repeat performances, you hear me?"

"Loud and clear," said Athos, ducking away from the contact with a smile.

"It's all good," murmured Porthos, reaching out until their fingers tangled together.

"None of that nonsense," laughed Aramis, barging his way in between them again. "It's practice time and Musketeers come before anything," he said, reiterating Porthos' earlier words.

"Even Anne?" laughed Porthos.

"Yep." Aramis nodded and slung his bass around his neck. "Even my belovéd queen. So let's stop fucking about and get on with rehearsals."

That single gig without Athos had made all the difference, reinforcing how unique they were as a four piece, and they enjoyed themselves so much that they played until they were voiceless, their fingers shredded and their energy sapped.

"All I can say is roll on Wednesday," said d'Artagnan, finishing up with an impressive solo routine. "Want a lift home, boys?"

"God yes," yawned Porthos. "I'm totally knackered." 

"Yours or his," asked the drummer.

"His," replied Porthos, shutting the catches on his hard case. They still had that folder to go through and he was hoping it wouldn't be another traumatic end to a day.

Piling into the back of the Transit, he and Athos sprawled out on the cushions and cuddled, blanketed in a contented silence. "Told you it'd be okay," said Porthos eventually, disturbing the peace.

"You were right," muttered Athos. "You're always right about everything." He pulled back a little and smiled. "I love you, Porthos."

It was the first unsolicited declaration from him and Porthos was so pumped up with happiness that he felt like a giant air balloon. "I love you too," he said as the van doors opened.

"Fucksake, you haven't reached the soppy stage already," grumbled d'Artagnan as they climbed out and he handed them their guitars. "This is not a love wagon."

"Except when it comes to you and Constance," said Porthos.

"Actually, we use a bed." D'Artagnan raised his eyebrows.

"Now you do," said Porthos, "but I remember the days when this Transit used to be bouncing up and down so much that we put bets on when the suspension would collapse."

This comment elicited a snort of amusement from the front and Aramis beamed out at them from the passenger window.

"Fuck off," said d'Artagnan goodnaturedly. "Go have a screw and we'll see you tomorrow morning at the cross."

"Right you are," said Porthos, fist bumping him.

"And don't be late," said d'Artagnan as he got back into the Transit and started the engine.

"You lot are like a family," said Athos once they were inside the caravan and the kettle was on.

"They _are_ my family," said Porthos, sliding across the bench seat and resting his elbows on the table. "You are too."

There was a very definite silence as Athos busied himself making cups of tea. He carried them over to the table, along with a packet of Digestives, and sat next to Porthos. "Families scare me," he confessed and his eyes were fixed on the folder in front of him.

"I wish I didn't know what you meant by that," said Porthos. "But, I promise you, they're not all bad." He reached out and slid the box closer to Athos. "Let's see this little boy of yours."

It was impossibly hard to watch Athos go through the pictures, tears streaking his face. The first one was of a much younger version of him, staring in adoration at the tiny bundle in his arms. As time progressed the bundle soon grew into a fair haired, sturdy little boy with a mesmerising smile and huge eyes. There was not one photograph in here that wasn't of Thomas alone or of Athos with Thomas, all carefully selected by his ex wife to exclude her from existence. It was strange. As if the tragedy had entirely eradicated their little family from everyone's memory.

"I was worried he'd have my cleft," said Athos, looking at one of his newborn son. "But he didn't. He was perfect."

Porthos happened to love Athos' scarred lip and darted in to kiss it, making a meal of it and turning that simple peck into something long lasting that left them both greedy for more.

"Do you think perhaps we should follow d'Artagnan's suggestion?" said Athos shyly, his face flushed with excitement.

Tea half drunk and abandoned, they stumbled into the bedroom, tripping over jeans and shoes in their need to get naked with each other. Falling into bed, still half clothed, they began to kiss, murmuring wonderful nonsense about _love_ as they stripped away pants and socks and finally came together in a glorious jumble of skin and limbs and sex. This time with lube and condoms to hand there was no need to mess about.

"I want you," said Athos as he hiked his legs up and locked them around Porthos, fucking himself to readiness on Porthos' fingers.

"God yeah." Porthos rolled on a condom and shunted around, searching for the spot. "That's it. Oh fuck," he cried as he pushed inside Athos.

From then on it was flying rather than fucking as they surged against each other, changing positions endlessly, seeking out new erogenous zones with mouths and fingers. That shunt of cock drove them ever closer to each other and the edge until Athos was on all fours with Porthos hunched over him, licking kisses onto his pale skin, hand squeezing at him, all sticky wet in his palm. 

Everything was a whiteness, a shivering, an arch of bodies and push of hips as Porthos held back, holding, holding on until Athos was rigid, crying out for him and coming over his fist in beautiful spasms. Hands latching onto Athos' hips, Porthos rode into him and then pulled out, hauling Athos over onto his back, lifting his legs then entering him again, holding him, kissing him, fucking him until he was empty of everything but this immense amount of love.

Back to his senses, Porthos let out a sigh of pure happiness. "That was worth the wait," he said, rolling sideways and peeling off the condom. "But I'm really knackered now."

"The sex was great," smiled Athos. "However you need to fine tune the après part."

"Oh, do I? said Porthos, leaning up on an elbow and beaming at Athos. He dipped down, covering that pretty mouth with kisses. "Thank you, light of my life, owner of my heart. Thank you for letting me worship at the altar of your body."

"You're welcome," said Athos, his lips curving into a lopsided smile that inevitably made Porthos' toes curl with delight.


	10. Chapter 10

As a surprise, Porthos framed one of the nicest photographs of Athos with his son and placed it on his bedside table.

"I know you want to keep things private," he said when Athos picked it up and stared at the image, not uttering a word. "But I figured you might like to have him here where just you and I can see him."

"Thank you." Athos' voice was thick with emotion as he put the frame carefully back down. "That's a really kind thought."

Porthos held him, hoping that he'd be ready to tell the whole story, but he could tell from the tears in those eyes that it was still too raw. "I'm here for you always," he said gently. "Whenever you need me."

"I need you now," said Athos, his hand sliding under Porthos' sweatshirt and tracing slow, sensual patterns across his back.

Porthos was hard instantly. "Aren't we supposed to be somewhere?" he murmured. It was Wednesday night.

"They can wait," said Athos kissing Porthos until he couldn't care less about music.

Once again they were an hour late, lethargic after a long fuck and neither of them in a hurry to get to the pub. "We kinda should stop doing open mic soon anyway," said Porthos, catching hold of Athos' hand and swinging it in a stupidly romantic way. 

"We kinda oughta should," agreed Athos, bright and happy and taking the piss just a pinch. "Make room for the young ones."

"Yeah," laughed Porthos. "One day they might even reach the heady heights of a Saturday night slot."

Now that they were officially a couple, everything was perfect. Porthos was beginning to wonder why they even rented two caravans, although they still went through the ritual of writing songs at Athos' place and recording them in his bedroom studio. Treville's heaters were shared out, life was shared out, and having never had this kind of steady relationship before, Porthos felt himself blossom, a settled and happy man at last.

"You're late again." Aramis slapped both of them around the heads in a joint manoeuvre he'd been perfecting for a while. "D'Artagnan's about to go nuclear."

"Sorry, bud," said Porthos, without really giving much of a damn, though he could see their drummer was already in position behind his kit and, even without pyro, there was smoke coming out of his ears.

He then watched, with a niggle of irritation, as Aramis kissed goodbye to his new girlfriend in a lingering way, making certain, before he did so, that they were in clear view of Anne. Marguerite was new to town, Anne had befriended her immediately and Aramis was behaving like an arsehole, using her to try and get Anne jealous. It wasn't working. Anne thought it was wonderful and all Aramis' free time was now spent doing couples things as a foursome, with Marguerite head over heels in love with him. 

Porthos wondered how the idiot was going to extricate himself from this mess. "Mate, you are seriously heading for trouble," he warned as they took to the stage. "Margie can't take her eyes off you."

"Rubbish," said Aramis. "It's just a bit of fun."

"Jesus, guys," said d'Artagnan, waiting impatiently for them and clicking his sticks together. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Sorry, pup," said Porthos. He glanced at Athos and grinned. "We were writing a new song and totally forgot the time."

"Yeah right." D'Artagnan raised his eyebrows in a knowing way. "Well, while you were busy doing _that_ , I got a phone call about some really exciting news, but I think I'll make you lot wait for a change and tell you later."

He looked as cocky as fuck and Porthos knew instantly that whatever it was must be big.

"You'll tell us now, or I'll kill you," said Aramis, who liked his pleasure served instantly and didn't believe in any kind of denial.

D'Artagnan could no longer suppress his excitement. "The Nadirs have dropped out of Search the Sun and we've been invited to take over their slot on the Sunday evening."

"No way," said Porthos in shock. StS was the local music festival that over the years had built up quite a reputation and was now starting to attract some decent names. It was held in the grounds of La Fére, the big house of the district, and it had always been a dream of theirs to get on the bill.

"Fucking way," said d'Artagnan with the biggest shit eating grin ever and then he counted them into their first song of the night.

The set was great--after news like that how could it be anything else?--and once it was over they crowded around the bar, all of them talking at once.

"How did it happen?"

"Who did you hear it from?"

"What time will we be playing?"

"Who else is on the lineup?"

"How long is the set?"

"What should we play?"

"Gentlemen, calm down and shut up," said Treville. "Let d'Artagnan get a word in edgeways and I'm sure he'll tell you everything you want to know."

A tray of drinks was provided and it was only then Porthos realised that Athos hadn't said a single thing since they got here. "You all right, love?" he asked, resting his hand on Athos' forearm.

"I could do with a beer," admitted Athos. "Just the one. I won't get drunk, I promise." 

He sounded panicky and Porthos wasn't about to preach. "If you think you can handle one then go for it," he said. "I love you. I'm not your guardian."

Athos looked up suddenly and smiled for the first time that evening, shifting their arms around until they were holding hands. "You know what, I don't think I need a drink after all," he said, his eyes creasing up with a fan of laughter lines. "Not when I have you."

"Mush alert," yelled d'Artagnan coming over to fetch the tray and direct the strays over to a table. "Come on, boys. We've got loads to work out and only a fortnight to go before the biggest gig of our fucking lives."

*

"You really aren't yourself," said Porthos, feeling Athos' forehead for sign of a fever and finding it as cool as ever. "You know you can talk to me about anything."

"I know," said Athos listlessly, hugging his knees and then rolling back over and pulling the covers up.

For days now Athos had been like this, fretful and sad, not wanting to go anywhere and content just to lie in Porthos' arms. The only time he seemed happy was when they were having a fuck. Several times, Porthos had come home from work to find him still in bed fast asleep, having not even bothered to eat anything all day. He was well aware of what depression looked like, but he didn't know how to stop Athos from sinking further into it without confronting him and causing his boyfriend to scarper.

"I've made some tomato soup," he called. A can of Heinz always made him feel better when he was young. It was the one thing his mother could cook.

"I'll have it in here," said Athos from the bedroom.

"No," said Porthos firmly. "You need to get up. We have to be at La Fére soon to check out the stage and run through a set. D'Artagnan's picking us up in half an hour and you know as well as I do he'll be early."

A reluctant Athos emerged from the bedroom, messy haired and bare footed. He sat down at the table and dunked a piece of toast into the bowl so many times that it disintegrated and turned to a soggy mess. Stirring it into the soup, he glanced up. "Do we have to do this gig?"

Porthos instantly relaxed. Athos was suffering from a massive case of stage fright and he understood that feeling better than anyone else on the planet.

"No, we don't have to do it, but I'd really love it if we did," he said. "It's been a dream of mine ever since I first played the guitar. Before then actually. Aramis and I used to sneak into the grounds when we were kids and watch all the bands playing."

"So did I," said Athos, staring at his soup. 

"Then let's do it," said Porthos, grabbing his hand and squeezing. "Let's make some dreams come true."

"Okay." Athos didn't look up. "If it'll make you happy."

The beep of the horn indicated that d'Artagnan had indeed arrived early, but Porthos refused to let Athos go anywhere until he'd finished his dinner and changed into something that wasn't a pair of grubby sweatpants. 

With the drummer once again in a lather, Porthos checked the time on his phone. "Not even a minute late," he said smugly as he and Athos climbed into the back. 

Being a local band, they were in the privileged position of getting an advance look at the stage and, if not a full rehearsal, at least have the opportunity of a quick run through with acoustics to work out timings.

"How the fuck are we going to fill this space?" asked Porthos, feeling the first tremors of stage fright.

"For a start we'll have everyone else's equipment here with us," said Aramis. "But we do need some kind of backdrop though."

"Constance is on that already," said d'Artagnan. "This is going to be fucking immense."

"It is," agreed Aramis, slapping d'Artagnan on the back. "Not sure how you did it, kid, but you're a miracle worker."

Puffed up with pride, d'Artagnan flushed at his success. "Just kept talking endlessly to people on Facebook," he muttered. "I guess announcing all our gigs finally paid off."

Porthos, who couldn't be bothered with any of that shit, was impressed. "Now let's work out which songs to play to wow the crowd and keep them happy for forty five minutes," he said. The music would always be his priority.

After a lot of arguing, a set was finally agreed upon that was two thirds old stuff with the remainder consisting of their newly co-written songs. Once they'd created the perfect blend of mood, Porthos left Aramis and d'Artagnan to sweet talk the organisers and stole Athos away for some 'them' time.

"You're still too quiet," he said as they said as they sat on the ridge of the hill and looked down over the valley. To the left was the fenced off festival site and in front of them was the stately home, nestled in amongst ornate gardens.

"Am I?" said Athos. "Sorry." He popped the ring pull of a can of Coke and continued to say nothing.

"We should go have a look at the house," said Porthos. It had been privately owned for centuries by the same family, but had, in the last few years, been handed over to a trust to look after. "I've never been in there."

"Why would you want to?" said Athos, staring at the building. "I know I don't."


	11. Chapter 11

Over-rehearsed and tetchy, the four men glared at each other and then back at the contentious item that was spread across one of the tables in the Wren. The pub had become the newly designated Musketeers garrison, mostly because it was the only place large enough to house them plus their growing entourage.

"Stop looking at me like that," said d'Artagnan miserably. "It's not my fault."

"You were the one who gave the dimensions to the printers," said Aramis.

Porthos spluttered with laughter. "It's Spinal Tap all over again," he said as he looked at the 5ft by 3ft banner that was supposed to have been made in metres. "Stonehenge."

Aramis let out a chuckle which soon turned into hysterics. "If this is the worst thing that happens then I'll be happy. We'll tie it to a stick and Constance can wave it so it looks like we have a fan."

"You lot and your handkerchief need to bugger off now so I can open up," said Treville, coming over to clear the glasses. "Busy weekend remember. Less drinks on the house and more money in the tills." He clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder. "You're as ready as you'll ever be, kids. Constance and Anne have the set dressing in hand so fuck off and enjoy the music."

"Yes, Dad," grinned d'Artagnan, smiling up at the older man.

Porthos felt a sudden sense of peace with the world. If they screwed up royally tomorrow then it wouldn't matter because they'd always have this. "I can't believe we've got backstage passes, never mind actually be playing," he said as he bundled into the passenger seat . "All these years watching and now we're on the bill."

"Hey! You two are supposed to go in the back," complained Aramis. 

"Not today," replied Porthos. "I don't want to miss any of this." He made a sudden grab for Athos, hauling him upwards and onto his knee, eliciting a yelp of surprise.

"I'm not a bloody lap dancer," said Athos, though he was smiling, which hadn't happened a lot recently, and he wasn't trying particularly hard to get away.

"As long as we don't get stopped by Sergeant Baker," said d'Artagnan. "He's got it in for my van."

Aramis climbed in next to them. "Have we all got our wellies?"

"I'm pretty sure we won't be needing them," said Porthos. The ground was firm, the forecast was great and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. He clamped his arms around Athos' middle and squeezed, nuzzling at his neck and whispering: "I love you."

Athos turned his head to smile and Porthos kissed him, once, twice softly and then--sod it--brought tongues into play.

"I'm not driving onto the site with you two necking like randy teenagers," grumbled d'Artagnan.

"You won't have to," said Aramis. "If you don't put your foot down they'll have finished screwing each other before we even get there." He dug a sly elbow into Porthos' ribs and Porthos shoved back, pushing him into the door which clunked and then half opened.

"Fuck!" yelled Aramis, grabbing the handle and slamming it closed.

"Shit! Sorry, mate," said Porthos. 

"I almost fell out," said Aramis, his eyes wide. "I could have died,"

"But you didn't," said Athos, with a smirk. "Not that it would have mattered much seeing as you're only the bass player." Ignoring Aramis' deluge of Latin insults, he rested his hand against Porthos' bristly cheek. "Now where were we?"

"Hmm, I dunno," grinned Porthos. "About here, I think." He worried at Athos lower lip with his teeth. "Or was it here?" he said, diving back in for more full on kisses.

"Stop it, you two," yelled d'Artagnan. "We're at the gate." He slowed the van and queued for entry. "Tickets?"

Aramis fished out the documents from the glove box and passed them to d'Artagnan who handed the paperwork to the security guy. "We're in the lineup," he said with the cheesiest grin ever.

Wristbands and lanyards now issued, they were directed down a back lane which meandered through the estate to the VIP area of the festival site.

"This is un-fucking-believable," said Porthos as they drove past a load of outbuildings and were directed inside the heavy fencing. "I could seriously jizz my pants."

He expected some kind of dry remark from his boyfriend--they were both hard after all the kissing--but got nothing in response. Instead Athos tensed in his arms.

"Don't be nervous," said Porthos. "Today's all about enjoying ourselves. Save the panic attack for tomorrow."

"If you say so," muttered Athos bleakly.

The other minor bands were all busy setting up tents and Porthos was grateful he didn't have to go through that shit. Camping was a pain in the arse. Using the bogs at a festival was bad enough. Squeezing the Transit into a space close to the entrance, they made their way to the performance area, all of them staggered, once again, that they'd be on the main stage rather than one of the two smaller ones.

"Are you absolutely certain you got this right?" asked Porthos for the hundredth time at which d'Artagnan jumped on his back, scrubbing his knuckles across Porthos' hair whilst Aramis went straight for his ribcage. They fell over into a pile, the play fight ending when Porthos easily overpowered his two opponents. He looked up, hoping to see Athos laughing, but once again the man looked sombre, displaced somehow.

"Hey, bae," he said bouncing to his feet. "Don't be feeling left out."

"I'm used to it," said Athos with a slight twitch of the lips.

Porthos wished that everyone suffered stage fright the way he did: a short, sharp shock of terror, often accompanied by the revisiting of his last meal but then immediately followed by the thrill of playing live. For Athos it was cruel: an inexorably slow build up of nerves, so intense that Porthos could see it happening.

"Let's go enjoy music and have a smoke," he said capturing Athos' hand. Weed was his yearly StS vice and it added to the fun, though he wouldn't be skinning up tomorrow until _after_ they'd played. 

The early bands were more shit than usual and, after a couple of hours of white noise, Porthos began to realise why Musketeers had been given third billing on Sunday. Pleasantly buzzed and we'll fed on festival food, he slowly got into the festival spirit and by the time it was dark he was loving everything, especially the headliners, an old Britpop band from the nineties who'd reinvented themselves and were once again massively popular.

He was about to comment on their new sound when he caught Athos trying to slink away. "You okay?" he shouted.

"Tired, bit of a headache," said Athos, pointing to his temple. He didn't like to smoke and hadn't really joined in when the others were getting high. "I'm going to find somewhere quiet to hang out. I'll see you back at the van."

Porthos nodded, watching his boyfriend wander off, but then, after ten minutes of being without him, discovered that he was no longer having fun. Going on instinct, he discovered Athos in that solitary lookout spot, on the hillside above the site.

"You like it up here," he said as he sat next to him.

"I do," said Athos. "But it's nicer without the music."

"Come here," said Porthos, pushing him back into the long meadow grass and kissing him thoroughly. "I'll distract you from the noise." 

It was louder still now that they were lying down, beats thumping through the earth, but Porthos knew exactly which card to play. Off on a mission of exploration, he wrinkled up that faded Dylan t-shirt and teased a thumb across Athos' nipple, at the same time sucking kisses onto his neck. His hand moved lower, undoing belt buckle and flies and then palming Athos' cotton clad cock.

"Want to have some festival fun of our own?" he said with a cheeky grin.

Athos laughed, pushing him downwards and, taking the hint, Porthos straddled him and peeled back his underpants. A touch of his finger had Athos moaning, the foreskin sliding back to reveal a dark pink swollen head.

"Mmm tasty," murmured Porthos, dipping lower to tease the flat of his tongue slowly up and down again until Athos was shaking.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, threading his fingers into Porthos' curls and helping him along. "So good."

Porthos took his time, certain that they were in a safe place, certain too that this was something he could do for Athos that would bring him pleasure and hopefully ease his nerves at the same time. As a volley of fireworks signified the end of the headline set, he sucked Athos off to their own private closing ceremony of the night and then slipped into his arms.

After a while, when Athos went to reciprocate, Porthos shook his head. "That was just for you, to show you how much I love you."

Athos heaved in an unsteady breath. "One day you'll know what that means to me."

Content with the fact that they were together in this surreal place, Porthos didn't try to unravel the comment and gazed up at the stars, unravelling their mysteries instead.


	12. Chapter 12

They woke next morning to a bombardment of rain, hammering down on the caravan roof. 

"Fuck!" said Porthos. "Just our luck. Bloody forecasters." He listened as the storm got worse and remembered previous years when the mud at La Fère had been knee deep. "I hope you've got some decent boots."

"My Docs are pretty waterproof," said Athos, tracing the path of a raindrop down the window pane with his index finger. "I don't mind the weather actually."

Porthos laughed. "You like everything that's glum."

"I like you and you're not glum in the slightest." Athos raised an eyebrow. "Should I do a rethink about us?"

"No bloody way," growled Porthos, pinning him to the mattress and peppering him with kisses. "You're stuck with happy old me for the rest of your life."

Just as things were getting interesting there was a repetitive banging on the caravan and Porthos wiped the window clean of mist to see a parked Transit van and two soggy blokes at the door.

"Screw that kid and his insane time keeping," he said, pulling on a pair of boxers and stomping off to let them in.

"It's eight a.m," he remarked in disbelief as he glanced at his phone.

Aramis groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "Don't I know it."

"Eight a.m. on the most important day of our lives," said d'Artagnan. "Aramis and I have already loaded up most of the gear. We have to drop it off at the site and then go back to get the girls and the set dressing. I can't believe you're all so complacent."

"And I can't believe you're such an arse," said Athos as he strode naked out of the bedroom, off for a shower.

All parts of Porthos perked up immediately and he was on his way to join him in the bathroom when he found his path blocked by an irate d'Artagnan. 

"No, you frigging well don't," he said, looking pointedly downwards at Porthos' overstretched underpants. "Today is for thinking with your music head not your dickhead."

"A fuck a day helps me work, rest and play," said Porthos hopefully.

"Work now, play later," replied d'Artagnan, his arm still barring the way. "The fuck and the rest can happen once we're done."

"Madre de Dios," said Aramis, waving his arms dramatically. "Who died and made you boss of us all?"

"The person who bequeathed me the brains to organise everything," said d'Artagnan, his arms folded.

"Fair point," agreed Aramis and with a shrug he went to fill the kettle.

"Feeling okay?" Porthos asked Athos half an hour later when they were showered, dressed and finishing their second cup of tea.

"Yes," replied Athos. "You?"

"Bit queasy," admitted Porthos, reaching for the comfort of a hand as he watched their remaining two bandmates lugging guitars cases and gig bags to the van. He supposed they should be helping them, but it was insanely early to be getting ready when they weren't due on stage until six. The thought of playing live in front of all those people set off a swarm of butterflies fluttering around his stomach and he gulped with anxiety.

"Keep it together," said Athos, that melodic voice of his a beacon of calm. "You're doing really well. Think of the weather as a shield. If this storm keeps up then no one'll see us for a wall of mud and water."

Only Athos could construe something positive from such miserable circumstances and this made Porthos howl with laughter, forgetting all about nerves. "You really are one of a kind," he said, hooking an arm around his boyfriend and dragging him in for a long and grateful kiss. "You're bloody priceless." And he was in every way. Porthos wouldn't exchange what they had together for all the money in the world. 

As expected, with the huge downpour and the large numbers of campers mooching about, the festival site had turned into a quagmire. Mud reaching halfway up his wellingtons, Porthos struggled to keep his big frame upright and was forever slipping and sliding. It was sheer determination that kept him from landing on his arse.

"At least we have clean stuff to change into," he said, eyeing Athos' jeans which were caked in dirt.

"What's the point?" Athos looked bemused. "We'll only get them filthy too."

"Because we want to look good on stage," explained Aramis, slowly as if he were talking to someone severely brain damaged.

"And there was I thinking it was about the music," muttered Athos, his bad mood returning now that the sun had come out.

At half past five it was time to set up. Overtaken by nerves, Porthos ran to the toilets and threw up everything he'd eaten that day. After swilling out his mouth and staring grimly at himself in the mirror he emerged to find Athos waiting for him outside the Portakabin that doubled as a dressing room. He'd brought with him their bags of clean clothes and a bottle of Lucozade. 

"Thanks," said Porthos as he slipped at the drink. "I'm a prat and I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I'm all yours," smirked Athos, as they changed into mud free gear. "So hopefully you'll never have to find out."

Porthos was amazed when he looked out at the stage from the wings. The girls were geniuses. They may have been missing a printed banner but somehow they'd managed to construct a temporary garrison out of nowhere, begging, borrowing and stealing supplies from the amateur dramatic group, the college theatre department and every second hand shop in the area. Constance had even found time to paint a huge fleur-de-lys as a replacement backdrop.

"Fucking A," said Porthos hugging Anne and then Constance. 

Constance beamed. "Now go out there and kill it."

Porthos peered in the direction of the sea of faces, but could hardly see a thing. The wind was whipping up, the sky was black and rain was pouring down in torrents, worse than ever, as if there were a vast leak in the heavens.

"Bloody hell," said d'Artagnan, as the stage manager looked at his watch and signalled them to go on. "We can do this, guys. Let's give it everything we've got."

"All for one," said Aramis and they fell into a nervous group hug.

With the storm raging around them, the count in was hard to hear and Athos missed the first bar entirely, grimacing at Porthos who shrugged back at him. There was nothing to be done and those who didn't know them wouldn't even notice. They picked up from then on, growing in confidence as the set progressed. but then, during the third song there was an almighty crash as one of the huge roofing sheets collapsed under the weight of the rain water which fell through in a deluge, taking out the entire backline of amps. It was the day the music died. Literally. All they had left was the PA.

At first Porthos panicked, but then he saw Athos pick up his old Epiphone acoustic and followed suit. Within two minutes the stage techs had mic'd them all up and they were back, nothing like expected, winging it all the way and jamming everything they could play acoustically into a boot stomping session. Three quarters were their own songs, the remainder covers and they entertained the crowd with everything they could think of from Radiohead to Mumford to Metallica.

With his team of technicians struggling to sort out the amp crisis, the stage manager called Porthos over and asked if they could extend their set for a while to which he agreed enthusiastically. Calling out song after song, they kept going, an hour turning into ninety minutes until they finally got the nod and finished up with Long Time No See.

"Thank you so much, guys," said the Danny the festival organiser as they came off stage to thunderous applause, shattered, soaking wet and over the freaking moon. "I'm bloody glad we were told about you. You saved us from a wipeout."

"More of a washout," said Aramis with a grin.

The come down from it was weird. No one wanted to drink or smoke. They were all happy just to sit quietly amongst an over excited group of friends and chill out. 

"We did it," said d'Artagnan finally, his arm curled around Constance.

"We did," agreed Aramis, searching for approval from Anne, who was talking to Louis and hadn't even noticed him seeking her out. 

Marguerite kissed him on the cheek. "You were incredible," she gushed. "You looked so gorgeous up there. My rock star."

"Thanks," said Aramis, a million miles away from where he was supposed to be.

Porthos looked away from the mismatched couple. His best friend might be an arsehole as far as relationships were concerned, but he'd fallen for Anne when they were in year eight and had never stopped loving her since then. Porthos was beginning to doubt he ever would and this made him immensely sad, which was not how he wanted to be feeling on one of the best nights of his life.

"Come for a walk with me," he said to Athos. "I'm hungry. I need food."

"Do you ever _not_ need food," smirked Athos as he stood up to join him. 

"I'm a big lad." Porthos draped an arm around Athos and planted a kiss on his cheek. "It takes a lot to satisfy me."

"Don't I know it.” Athos leaned into him.

“Haven't noticed you complaining.” Porthos grinned, kissing Athos again and then turning to the others. "We're off for some dinner," he said.

"Is that what they're calling it now?" laughed d'Artagnan, happy-go-lucky now that their set was over.

"How about some pulled pork? Or maybe a nice sausage," sniggered Aramis.

"Surely you mean two," giggled Constance.

Porthos snorted in fake disapproval and they left the group to a chorus of hilarity.

"Are we really that bad?" said Athos in a low voice as they ran the gamut of food stalls, brushing off hopeful vendors.

"I like to think of it as being that good," grinned Porthos, kissing him soundly on the lips. "Hot dog do you? I reckon we should have one on principle."

Eating on the go, they checked out some of the weirder side shows and in a fit of romantic stupidity bought each other matching necklaces, leather bands with wrought silver music notes coiled around clefs.

"We're both naff now," declared Athos as they fixed them around each other's necks with a mixture of embarrassment and pride.

The rain turned from a steady flow into yet another biblical downpour and they ran through the VIP area, taking shelter in one of the disused outbuildings.

"You wanted to see the house?" said Athos, dodging the drips that were leaking through the broken roof. “We could have a look now, if you like. At least it'll be dry in there.”

"But won't it be shut?" asked Porthos.

Athos shook his head. "The organisers rent part of it during the festival."

"They do?" Porthos wondered how he missed out on so much information, but then he was totally preoccupied by music and always had been. "Let's have a sneaky tour then."

The gully around the courtyard was running with a river of storm water and, racing to get out of the rain, Athos let them in through a nondescript entrance into some offices. 

Porthos shook himself like a wet dog and looked around. "It's a bit dull," he said, trying the handle of the one ornately carved door. It was locked. "No go," he said in a disgruntled voice.

"Let's see if we have better luck with this one." Athos opened an obscured panel which revealed a narrow flight of stairs and, without hesitation, he began to climb them.

"We can't just walk in," said Porthos, from the bottom. "Someone might live here. A caretaker or something."

"They don't," said Athos, his voice echoing back down. "You can tell. Come on."

It was eerie inside the enclosed staircase and Porthos shivered, but felt very differently once he emerged through a trompe l'oeil door onto an amazing galleried landing. The glow of light from outside was enough to highlight oak panelling and immensely high walls that were covered in vast oil paintings. 

"I can't believe they left this place unlocked."

"I'm sure they don't usually." Athos pointed out sensors. "Thankfully the security alarm hasn't been armed or we'd be in trouble with Sergeant Baker all over again."

"This is impressive," said Porthos as they looked into room after room, all furnished perfectly to match the age of the house.

They then crossed over twisted red ropes that sectioned off the private areas of the house. The rooms here were dusty and forlorn but in some ways even more splendid. Athos stopped outside one of the second floor doorways, running his hand over the architrave and then stepping inside.

"If I'm not too turned around, there should be a good view of the main stage from here," he said, looking out through a huge mullioned window.

Porthos joined him, wrapping his arms around Athos' waist until he was resting flush against him, back to chest. The festival site was lit up and the penultimate band were just finishing up their set to make way for the headliners: Marvelesque. It was an amazing vantage point.

"This feels good," said Athos and then he turned in the circle of arms and smiled. There was something vaguely wistful about it. "I know how we could make it better still." He kissed Porthos full on the mouth, all greedy hunger.

"Wanna get nasty, do you?" grinned Porthos, well and truly up for it.

"I do," said Athos. "I want you to screw me right here."

There was something crazy about him tonight. He was wired and on edge, and Porthos, who was still hyped up from the adrenaline rush, could think of no better release than some good hard sex in an illicit place.

"I love you," growled Porthos. "But I specially love you when you're all fucked up and dirty."

Athos knelt, unbuttoning Porthos' jeans and hooking him out of his underwear until his cock stood proud, fat and long, leaking with excitement. Wetting his lips he leaned in, licking Porthos from root to tip then circling the crown with his tongue.

"Fuck," groaned Porthos. In the courtyard below, three people were getting out of an Astra. "There's someone coming, babe. We'd better stop."

"Don't care," said Athos, standing up and unbuckling his belt. "They won't know we're here."

Porthos searched his pockets. "I haven't got any condoms or lube."

"I don't care. Just fuck me," said Athos, jeans and pants down to his knees, cock thick and dripping with precome.

It was a gorgeous sight and when Athos fell to all fours Porthos was done for, his prevailing common sense flying out of the leaded lights. Wetting fingers with spit, he loosened Athos off then, cock jerking in his hand, he pushed into him, gripping him by the hips, pulling out then slamming back in, everything hot and tight, every nerve on fire with sensation. 

They weren't quiet despite the presence of others in the house. This was insanely good, crazy stupid, but it was the best way ever to top off a perfect day. Porthos fucked Athos harder, hand around his cock, milking out an orgasm which formed a pattern of white over the heavy oak floorboards. He licked his fingers and the taste, combined with the clench of muscle, had him coming like never before, heaving into Athos, tingling with life and crying out for him as he finished off, his voice echoing around the empty room.

"Shit!" he gasped in a panic, pulling out and making himself decent in a hurry. "We must be mental."

They were a messy pair and as Porthos watched Athos pull up jeans and pants, trying to wipe away the worst of the semen, he was overjoyed that they'd barebacked, even under these weird circumstances. It meant nothing but love to him and he'd never done it before.

"In case you’re worried, I'm clean," said Athos with a nervous smile. "I was tested." He drifted off.

Porthos hugged him. "I trust you," he said kissing Athos on the lips. "The way you trust me." He tugged at the necklace around Athos' neck. "We're amazing. Totally made for each other."

"Also naff." Athos pushed against him, hooking both arms around him and nuzzling into his neck.

"I love being naff with you," grinned Porthos. "I love everything about you, but can we please get out of here before we're arrested."

"There's no need to hurry," said Athos. "Whoever turned up here will be in the offices, so we'll either have to wait for them to leave, or go out through the front door. We may as well have a look around the place first."

High on a second buzz of adrenaline, Porthos followed Athos down the stairs, using the torch on his phone to inspect all the portraits. The La Fères were a grim and vaguely familiar lot. "I wonder if it was like this when the family lived here," he mused.

"I expect so," said Athos. "They have a responsibility." His words petered out as they had a habit of doing.

"Responsibility to what?" asked Porthos. He couldn't imagine feeling anything but privileged living in a place like this, with tons of money and no need to worry about anything.

Athos shrugged and took one last look at the paintings before heading for the front door and sliding back the iron latches. "I don't know. It doesn't matter."

As soon as they were outside, Porthos slipped an arm around Athos' waist and pulled him close. "Don't be sad. We've just played the best gig of our lives. We've gone down a storm _during_ a storm. We've single handedly saved the festival. We've broken into a stately home where we had an outrageously good fuck, and, I've just remembered." He grinned at Athos. "We left evidence of it in spunk puddles all over the floor."

Athos smirked and then he huffed with quiet laughter. "We did, didn't we?" 

As they escaped the scene of the crime through the arched gatehouse, Porthos disentangled himself from Athos and took a pre-rolled joint out of his baccy tin. "We're a pair of dirty bastards," he said lighting up and breathing in. "And I couldn't be more proud of us. Or any happier." 

He passed the spliff to Athos who took it and had a tentative hit. "You make everything right," he said in a voice that was gritty from smoke and yet full of boyish wonder.


	13. Chapter 13

With the next day being a bank holiday, Porthos and Athos spent the entire morning in bed, exhausted from the workload they'd put in to get everything perfect, but not tired enough to stop touching each other, sex always a frisson of excitement in the background even if it wasn't at the forefront of their minds.

At lunchtime, Porthos got a call from Aramis, demanding to know where they were. 

"We're all celebrating at The Wren," yelled his best friend, trying to make himself heard over the hubbub. "Treville says it's free drinks all day for Musketeers. Why aren't you here?"

"Mainly because we didn't know about it," said Porthos. It was hard to concentrate on the conversation with Athos sucking a pattern of bruises onto his skin and working him off with a steady hand.

"Stop screwing each other and get down here now," shouted Aramis. "I know he's doing something filthy to you from your heavy breathing." The sounds from the pub grew even louder if possible, turning, all of a sudden, to cheers. "Got to go," he said, hanging up suddenly.

Porthos was intrigued, but not enough to leave the bedroom. Sliding in next to Athos, he licked at his mouth until it opened then reached down to pull at his cock. The mutual jerk off was a simple pleasure but if felt so good, a relaxation after the previous night's excitement as they kissed with utter enjoyment and stroked each other off to another beautifully slow come.

"What did Aramis want?" said Athos as he reached for the box of tissues.

"Sounds like there's a party happening at The Wren." Porthos smiled at his man who was diligently cleaning up their mess. "But we'd have to get out of bed for that and I'm not sure I can."

Athos kissed him soundly on the mouth. "It'll make going back to it all the better."

"Agreed," said Porthos. "But I'm not sure whether I physically _can_. My legs are like jelly."

"Come on," said Athos, grabbing his hand. "I'll buy you some chips on the way. The exercise will do us good."

"Exercise," said Porthos, aghast. "Having we been having enough of that?" He pulled Athos back down to the mattress, locking him in place with arms and legs. "You're different today. Just as gorgeous, but definitely different."

"Maybe."Athos grinned. "Exorcised as well as exercised."

"What do you mean?" asked Porthos, leaning up on an elbow and tracing the shape of Athos' mouth with his fingertip. Always hoping to hear the man's story, today he felt one step closer.

"You make me different," said Athos. He splayed his hand across his heart and then pressed it against Porthos' chest. "Full."

It was the opposite of how Porthos had first described the sensation of falling in love, but he understood completely. They had to be empty first to make room for each other.

They kissed again for a long time, neither of them ready for more sex, simply enjoying the pleasure of being together, but finally, Porthos dragged himself away from the lure of that rumpled bed and its adorable occupant. 

"You mentioned chips?" he said on his way back from the shower

"I did." Athos sat up, running an appreciative hand over Porthos' wet, washboard abs. "And chips you shall have, you porker."

"Oi!" yelled Porthos, hefting Athos up into his arms. "Who's the one with the flabby belly?"

An hour later, greasy fingered from battered sausage and chips they arrived at The Wren to find it packed out to the doors with lingering festival goers, the window seats taken up by their friends.

"Fuck me, you took your time," said Aramis. "What've you been doing?"

"Chilling," said Porthos.

"Like rabbits," coughed d'Artagnan behind his hand.

Porthos grinned. "And having dinner. What's all the fuss about?"

A newspaper was shoved into his hand. The front page was full of shots of the disaster on stage, but the headline was the part that caught his eye. _All for One: The Musketeers Save the Day._

Porthos sank down onto a seat, Athos squeezing in next to him to share the paper. "They've even got our names right," he said as he read through the article which was heaping praise onto them. The only easy one to spell was Athos... just Athos.

"The story's been picked up by the nationals," said d'Artagnan, his eyes wide. "Also Danny just phoned and Marvelesque want to book us as a support act for their UK tour. I can't even-" For once, both he and Aramis were lost for words and they weren't the only ones as Porthos and Athos stared at each other in shock.

"I guess you don't have to look for a job now," said Porthos.

Athos scraped the hair back from his forehead. "I suppose not."

Treville carried over a tray of drinks and squeezed in next to Aramis. "I've also heard on the grapevine that there's a couple of record companies interested in signing you," he said, leaning in, elbows on knees, hands steepled. "But don't get your hopes up. You know what sharks they can be. Play it cool. Don't jump at the first offer and see what happens. Talk to Danny and see what he thinks. He'll probably know of a good manager you can employ."

All these words had been flying over Porthos' head, but now they started to sink in. He watched Treville return to the bar and knew that this signalled the end of an era. There'd be no more sleepy summers spent writing songs. There'd be bigger venues and a lot more stage fright. There'd be money, but then money wasn't everything.

"Don't freak out on us," said Aramis. "This is what we've always wanted, buddy."

Porthos was disorientated. Just one day ago they'd made their first dream come true and now everything was happening in a chain reaction, so fast. Too fast.

"Tell him, Athos," pleaded d'Artagnan.

"I can't," said Athos in a low voice. "Because I won't be doing a tour, or signing any contracts. You work fine as a three piece."

The world, which had been at teetering point already, imploded around Porthos, leaving him to make sense of the debris that was left. "I'm not doing it without you," he insisted. "And that's final."

"For fuck's sake, you two." Aramis gesticulated his despair. "What is the matter with you?" He glared at Porthos. "Do you seriously want to stay here and work for the council for the rest of your life?"

"Please, guys," said d'Artagnan.

For the first time since d'Artagnan's father had died, Porthos saw his young friend close to tears and felt sick, a little bit frightened if he were honest. He was beginning to wish they'd never played the bloody festival.

"Athos, we can't let them down," he muttered.

"I'm sorry, but I won't be doing it," said Athos. "As far as I'm concerned, it's over." He leant in sideways to speak earnestly to Porthos, his voice steady and determined. "Don't let it be so for you. This is what you've always wanted. This is your dream, not mine."

"But I can't do it without you," said Porthos, wringing his hands in a panic. "You never saw what I was like before you came here. You're my anchor. You're my world."

"Mine too, love, but it's impossible," said Athos. "I can't do it. It’d ruin everything."

"Athos," called Treville. "Over here a minute. A quick word, if you please."

That ebullient mood now vaporized into thin air, they all watched silently as Athos squeezed past the chairs and walked up to the bar. Rather than talking to him over the counter, Treville lifted the hatch and invited him through into the private area, leaving Serge to serve drinks.

"Wonder what that's about?" said d'Artagnan.

"Let's hope the man can work miracles," said Aramis. "Though I doubt it." He turned to Porthos. "You won't seriously walk away from this just because Athos has said no, will you? He's been in the band for a couple of months; we've been together for ten years and, to be fair, he always said he didn't perform for an audience. Also, this doesn't mean you have to split up as a couple. Think hard before you come to a decision."

"I understand all that," said Porthos as miserable as he'd ever been in his whole miserable life. He knew what Aramis said made sense and he hated letting his friends down. "But we're different with him in the band," he said. "It’s special. I can't explain it any better than that."

"So what?" said d'Artagnan, lifting his feet up onto the chair and hugging his knees. "We were already great before he joined."

He looked exactly like that broken hearted eleven year old kid all over again and it was that which made up Porthos' mind. "You know what, you're right," he said, raising his glass of Coke in a toast. "To The Three Musketeers."

"Or The Four, if you'll still have me," said Athos, returning to them, a shy smile lighting up his face.

Porthos let out a whoop of joy, and putting down his drink, he made a sudden grab for Athos, pulling him onto his lap. "You beauty. Of course we'll fucking have you, won't we, boys?" He looked around at everyone, his grin so wide he could feel tension in the corners of his mouth.

"Absolutely. As long as it's not in a sexual way," smirked Aramis.

"You've got your hands full with me, lover," giggled Marguerite, straddling Aramis' knee then locking her arms around his neck and Porthos had a feeling that, as far as his best friend was concerned, the tour couldn't come about soon enough.

"So, we're doing this?" he said, still in shock. "We're honest to god doing this?" He looked at Athos, double checking that there hadn't been a mistake.

"We really are," replied Athos. He lowered his voice. "I want you to be happy. You're the only thing left that matters to me and I'll do anything for you."

"I am happy," said Porthos, wrapping both arms around him and kissing him firmly on the lips. "Thank you."


	14. Chapter 14

Now that they'd decided to go for it, there was so much to achieve in such a short space of time that Porthos' head was in a permanent spin. Danny, the organiser of StS, had put them in touch with a potential manager, Armand Richelieu, who was known in the business as the Devil and ran a stable of high class acts, treating them all like whores rather than clients. No one, however, could deny that he got the best deals possible, from recording contracts to venue hire, whilst skimming a healthy proportion of profit from the top. 

Having taken Treville's advice to heart, they'd decided not to rush matters and hadn't yet been pressured into anything. Last week they'd met up with the guys from Marvelesque to talk tour details, and in a couple of days time they would be on the train to London for a formal meeting with Richelieu at Cardinal Red to hand over twelve percent of their earnings in exchange for his wheeler dealings.

Tonight, however, was the most special event of all. It marked the end of a long run of gigs at The Wren, and the atmosphere was heavy with poignancy. It was an Irish wake: all of their fans ready to party hard and celebrate with the band, but also mourn something that was, in all likelihood, gone for good. For Porthos, this place had been a refuge, somewhere he could come and know he'd be okay. Somewhere he could pour out his troubles without listening to platitudes in return. Treville had been a father figure as much as a friend and it was impossible to understand why such a really great bloke was always alone.

"Don't be a misery guts, Porthos," said the man, pouring him a pint of Coke. "Onwards and upwards, as they say. Reach for the stars."

"But who will you have left to fuss over now?" smiled Porthos.

"Don't worry," said Treville. "This town always has a steady trickle of lame ducks."

"You need a wife and a brood of your own," said Porthos.

Treville shook his head. "Not my thing," he said. "Too personal. Too intimate." He smiled at Porthos and, just for a moment, seemed wistful. "We are what we are, eh lad." He then slipped back into the usual stern but kindly demeanour. "Here come the other ducklings."

Understanding of Porthos’ need for space and the struggle he was still having in coming to terms with the big change ahead of them, the other three had left him in the capable hands of Treville and buggered off to fetch comfort food in order to settle his nervous stomach.

"Hello, gorgeous," said Athos, sliding the McDonald's box towards him and then kissing him on the cheek. "Did you miss me?"

"Always," laughed Porthos and it was nothing but the truth.

"You eat that and I'll help the boys set up for a sound check." Athos kissed him again and bounced off towards the stage.

"A remarkable change," said Treville. "You've worked wonders on him."

"We all have," said Porthos taking a bite of his cheeseburger. Athos didn't so much as glance at a pint, let alone eye up the optics the way he used to all the damn time. "What did you say that convinced him to come on tour?"

"I just reminded him of what he had to lose," said Treville. "He understood."

Though the outcome was never in doubt, their set went down fantastically well. Winging it, the way they had done at Search the Sun, they took requests and played until their fingers bled and their voices were hoarse, not stopping for a break and just carrying on until they were exhausted, wanting this final Saturday to be a tribute to the fans who had supported them from the start.

After a long round of encores and an even longer session of back patting and congratulations, they were heading for the usual circle of window seats when they were stopped in their tracks by a cold and rather calculating voice that was loud enough to cut through the chatter of the crowd.

"Well if it isn't Olivier La Fère."

Confused, Porthos wheeled around to see who was speaking and discovered a short, rather insipid blond man with a bored looking girl on his arm.

"So the photographs in the papers weren't lying," the stranger continued. "The only thing they had wrong was your name. What is this nonsensical Athos all about? Trying to hide, I suppose. Though, to be frank, if anyone needs to disappear It would be you, La Fère." 

Porthos was utterly confused. La Fère? But weren’t they the family from the big house? Athos remained silent, as still as a statue if it weren't for the trembling Porthos could feel from the point at which their arms brushed together.

"Enough of this crap," said Treville, pushing his way through the packed bar. "Get out now. You and your friend are barred."

"Don't worry, landlord," said the blond man. "We're not staying. We only came to see if the rumours were true." He spun around and addressed his next comment directly to Athos. "How was prison, Ollie? Have you killed any other babies since you've been released?"

The entire building fell into a shocked silence apart from Treville who roared: "Get out," at the top of his voice.

He was a fearsome sight when he was in a temper and Porthos would have stepped back and admired him if he hadn't had other things on his mind. He glanced at Aramis and d'Artagnan who looked equally as confused. Thank goodness he wasn't the only one in the dark. There must be a misunderstanding. Athos was just Athos: warm and sweet, utterly loveable.

The blond man shrugged haughtily and looked around at the shocked faces of the band members. "Did you not know, chaps? La Fère here kidnapped his own child from the boy's mother when he was as blind drunk as always. He didn't even bother to strap him into the seat and then crashed the car. The baby didn't stand a chance, of course. All he got for it was three years in prison for manslaughter. Not much for the life of a child, I'd say. Not much of a parent if you ask me."

With one final triumphant stare at Athos, the blond man stalked off and Porthos watched as he and his girlfriend climbed into a cherry red Maserati, the deafening roar of that exhaust a final nail in the coffin. The wake was over.

Porthos then looked at Athos, trying to process everything. "Tell me it's not true."

"It's true." Athos grabbed his guitar bag, slung it over his shoulder and stumbled blindly out of the pub.

Everything they’d had together was gone in an instant. Porthos couldn't see for the tears and then, once he'd remembered the man, _the monster_ he was crying over, he wiped them away, furious with himself, and chased after Athos, grabbing his arm.

"You don't fucking run away from me," he snarled. "Not after that. Tell me what happened to your son."

Athos turned slowly to face him. "My wife, Anne, was leaving me. She was taking Thomas away." His face crumpled. "I loved him. I couldn't let her do that and so I had to get him back."

"You were drunk?" said Porthos. "Like he said?"

"Yes," said Athos, pulling himself together, bleak now rather than emotional. "It was just as Rochefort described. I was too drunk to think, let alone drive. I pushed my way into the house where they were staying. I rowed with Anne and I grabbed Thomas." He let out a low whine of misery. "He must have been so afraid, but I needed to make sure he was somewhere safe. I-” He stopped for a moment. “I put him in the front seat of the car and drove off. I didn't mean to crash the car. I didn’t mean to kill him. I wish it had been me that died."

Porthos thought of the hell he'd been through with his drunken bitch of a mother, but even she had never done something as low as this. "I expect a whole lot of people also wish you'd died that day," he said and then he swung his fist and the force of it was powerful enough to knock Athos off his feet and onto the concrete slabs, the guitar crunching and then splintering on impact. "Fuck you," he said. "Fuck you and your lies."

Ripping the necklace off and dropping it onto the pavement, he walked back into the pub and sank down into one of the seats, deliberately not looking at Athos as he climbed slowly to his feet. Not seeing him as he staggered off up the road with the guitar bag in his hand, leaking broken Epiphone parts as he went. It wasn’t a reminder of the day they'd met and Porthos didn’t cry over spilt milk, or a split lip.

"Porth?" said Aramis carefully.

Porthos shook his head. It was too soon. In fact, it was a long while after that before he was steady enough to speak. "He knew about my mother all this time and he never let on what he'd done," he said in a brittle voice.

"He's paid the price," said Treville, sitting in the seat opposite him. "Do you really think he doesn't regret what happened every single day?"

"You knew about it," said Porthos, feeling doubly betrayed.

“Yes, I did,” agreed Treville. "I recognised him after he'd been coming in here a while.” He reached out, but Porthos withdrew his hand. "What he did was wrong, but it was a long time ago, son. If you throw all of this away now then you're not the man I thought you were."

"He lied to me," said Porthos and he knew then that forgiveness was not an option. What they'd had was over. "We went through those photographs together. I grieved for that little boy. I held Athos when he cried and then I cried with him. What a crock of shit. How could he do that to me?"

"Because he's human," said Treville. "And he makes mistakes, the way we all do, only he had no way of putting his right."

"He could have put one mistake right by telling me the truth," said Porthos and slamming his fist down on the table he glared at the man. "Couldn't he, Treville? And so, for that matter, could you."


	15. Chapter 15

The hardest part about signing contracts and getting ready to go on tour wasn’t the fact that Athos was no longer by his side. Porthos had no desire to see him right now. Maybe one day he'd be able to accept what had happened, but not yet. No, the most difficult thing of all was knowing, without doubt, that the man was lying curled up in bed, sleeping all day and not bothering to eat or drink. 

Porthos had one regret of his own. He was not a violent man. He was strong, but he'd been on the wrong end of a punch too many times in his life and had vowed never to lash out in anger. He'd done just that, lost control and in doing so had not only hurt Athos, but had destroyed the one thing he'd valued. So, to make amends for his mistake, he had something to do before heading out into the big wide world.

Their gear had already been collected by a haulage company and a taxi was waiting outside The Wren, with two eager faces peering out from the open car windows. 

"Hurry up or we'll miss the train," said d'Artagnan. 

"Yeah right," said Porthos with a snort of laughter. "We only have an hour to make a ten minute journey. How will we ever get to the station on time?"

"Sod off," said d'Artagnan. "Go say your goodbyes and make friends."

Porthos halted on the step, steadying himself, steeling himself for the parting, and then he entered the pub, breathing in deeply to take in the atmosphere of the place. If all went to plan, it would be a long time before he’d be back.

"Are you boys off then?" said Treville. He was sitting at the bar reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee next to him. It was a familiar sight and one that Porthos would miss very much.

"Yes, we are," he said. "We have a couple of warm up gigs in London and then it's Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow and back to London."

"And they want you to tour Europe now as well, I hear?" 

Porthos nodded. "Yep, you heard right. I'm going to be throwing up in a lot of different countries." He wondered once again how Treville knew so much about everything, and his thoughts involuntarily turned to Athos. 

Apparently he wasn't the only one. "I'm sorry for what happened," said Treville, out of the blue. "I should have butted out of your relationship."

"Or maybe butted in some more?" suggested Porthos. It was the not knowing that had destroyed them in the end.

"You're right." Treville sighed. "I didn't know he'd told you about the baby."

"The problem is he told me a pack of lies about the baby," said Porthos and his anger flared again, bright and fierce. "Knowing what you know about my mother, I don't understand why you'd let me get involved with someone like that."

"I said I was sorry," muttered Treville. “I misjudged things badly. I made a mistake." He looked sideways at Porthos. "It happens."

"I know," said Porthos, ignoring the beep from the taxi. "I made one too." He put the guitar case on the counter. "Give this to Athos when you see him." The Tanglewood meant something to both of them. It had been a part of their songwriting since the beginning.

"I will," said Treville and then he took something out of his pocket and slid it along the bar. It was the silver and leather necklace. "I thought you might want it as a keepsake."

Porthos picked it up, dangling it from his fingers, and noticed straight away that the catch had been fixed. If only it were as easy to mend other broken parts. He escaped to the relative privacy of the gents, a sudden burst of emotion tying him into knots. Staring into the mirror, he looped the band around his neck and fastened the clasp with shaking fingers then glared accusingly at the glass, an image of Athos reflected behind him. 

"I thought we were happy," he said. "I thought I loved you and it turns out I didn't even know who you were."

*

Four months on and Porthos was so bored he couldn’t even be bothered to throw up any longer. The first few weeks had been a thrill, but now it was an endless round of tour buses, hotels and venues. He did love it. Music would always be his life, but it could have been so much better.

"You don't sound quite the same as when I saw you at StS," said the arrogant prick in the crumpled suit. "But you're good."

He was the third arrogant prick they'd met up with during the tour. The third A&R man in the same suit, acting with the same casual disinterest as he sipped at a glass of warm white wine.

"We've had a line up change," said d'Artagnan, too eager as always. It was impossible to knock the enthusiasm out of him. "But we're still brilliant," he added, his arrogance far more justified than some arsehole from a record company.

Porthos laughed, eliciting a look of irritation from their guest.

"I'll think things over and be in touch with your management team," said the man, shaking their hands and leaving the hospitality suite, his nose in the air.

"Make sure you come up with a competitive offer," said d'Artagnan as he followed him to the exit. "We have lots to consider already." He leant against the doorjamb, a wide grin on his face. "Well, then," he continued. "Now that the shit is over, I'm off to spend some quality time with my girl. See you tossers later."

Watching d'Artagnan race off, filled with enthusiasm, Aramis slumped a little lower into his seat. He'd been expecting Constance to bring Anne with her as a travel companion, but instead she had provided them with the news that her friend was now engaged to Louis Bourbon.

"You've got to get over her, mate," said Porthos. "It's never going to happen. She knows how you feel about her and she's made it very plain that, for some unknown reason, she loves the little twerp."

Aramis glared at him. "Unlike you, I can't just turn off my emotions."

Porthos baulked at this and reached instinctively for his necklace, rubbing the metal between finger and thumb. He didn't find it easy to love or to trust, and Athos' betrayal of both these things had hurt him enough to switch off his feelings, but it hadn't been an easy thing to do. Certainly not as simple as Aramis made it sound. 

"I'm sorry, Porth," said Aramis with sorrowful eyes. "I'm not great company right now. I'm going to find a couple of willing girls and bang out my misery."

He'd been taking advantage of the steady supply of groupies since they were on tour, his good looks and easy charm able to win over the hardest of hearts. Except for the one he wanted.

"Don't forget you still have Marguerite waiting for you at home," Porthos reminded him.

Aramis pursed his lips. "How could I ever forget with the amount of times she calls me. My phone's crammed full of the dirty pics she keeps sending."

"Let her down gently," advised Porthos.

"I can't," said Aramis. "Anne would never forgive me."

Porthos rolled his eyes, about to respond to this warped piece of logic when his own phone rang. It was an unknown number and he answered abruptly, certain it must be a fishing call. 

"Porthos, it's Sergeant Baker here," said the disembodied voice. 

"Hello, Sergeant. How can I help?" Porthos' heart sank. He knew what it must be about and he swallowed down a gulp of pain. Sensing something was very wrong, Aramis came over to prop him up.

"I'm sorry to have to call you like this, but knowing the situation as well as I do, it seemed easiest to telephone."

"What's happened?" muttered Porthos, all the life draining out of him as he clutched at the necklace. Please no. Please, please, just no.

"It's your mother, Porthos. I'm afraid she died of a heroin overdose two days ago. They're bringing her body back to the mortuary here. I'm so sorry."

"I didn't know she was on drugs," said Porthos in a blank voice. He supposed that was why she stole from him last time she came home. She had another, more expensive habit to feed. "What do I do now?" he said, his brain in a muddle. "Do I arrange a funeral? I don't know how."

"If you come home I can talk you through everything," said Baker. “It's not too complicated.”

"But I'm on tour," said Porthos. "I can't just leave in the middle of it."

"Bro, your mother's just died," said Aramis, who'd been listening in. "We can miss a couple of dates. We're only the support band."

"If you like, I can arrange a simple funeral for you once the autopsy is done and the coroner's report is in," said the policeman.

"And I can just turn up on the day and write a cheque?" 

"I suppose so," said Baker. "If that's what you really want."

"It is," said Porthos. He didn't owe his mother a thing. He would see her buried for his own peace of mind rather than out of any sense of loyalty. "Thanks, Sergeant," he said, hanging up.

Looking at Aramis, he poured two shots of Bourbon into a couple of dirty glasses. "One drink," he said. "To celebrate her death." He knocked it back in a swallow. The burn hurt his throat, filling him with nausea, and he wondered what made some people rely on booze so much that it killed them, along with the ones they were supposed to love the most.


	16. Chapter 16

Coming home was weird and anything but wonderful. Every square inch of this town was filled with memories, both good and bad, and the weight that had been lifting now settled itself firmly around Porthos' neck.

Unable to sleep, he'd caught an earlier flight from Paris and arrived alone at the crack of dawn, sitting in the park and watching the not so lame ducks flap around in a constant state of annoyance as he waited for the funeral directors to open. There would be no church service. His mother had never claimed to believe in Jesus, nor did she act as if she had been saved. Instead, there would be a simple interment with a few vacuous words spoken over her grave by the local vicar, Father Duval. It was the done thing apparently, according to Sergeant Baker. Porthos thought about other things done by his mother and wondered if people would be so forgiving towards her had they known the whole truth.

At nine o'clock he was banging on the door of the Co-op funeral parlour and by ten he was outside again, having heard enough sympathetic crap and handed over what he owed. He was about to walk back to the duck pond when he was accosted by a friendly face.

"Come and have a drink," said Treville. "The other boys are waiting for you at the pub. They were really worried. You shouldn't have run off like that."

Porthos was amazed. "I'm twenty four and perfectly capable of getting on a plane by myself."

"But apparently incapable of informing friends what your plans are." Treville tutted. "And there was I thinking you were the responsible one."

"Sorry." Porthos gained a moment of comfort from the fatherly telling off, but it was short lived. He wasn't ready to be part of a crowd. "Tell them I'm okay," he said. "I'll see them at the cemetery at twelve."

"Porthos?" said Treville.

"I _am_ all right," said Porthos. "I just need to get this over with before I can talk to anyone."

"I understand," said Treville, leaving him be and heading in the direction of The Wren. "Holler if you need me," he called.

After that, Porthos took himself off on an hour long tour of the town, revisiting the scenes of some of his worst nightmares. The supermarket where his mother had thrown up in the aisle. The senior school where she'd turned up for a parent's evening and tried to flirt with his head of year, her tits on display to the world. The primary school where he'd sat for three hours on his first day waiting for her to pick him up, before making his own way home. It was an exorcism of sorts and finally he understood what Athos had been talking about, all those months ago.

At noon, a sea of faces gathered around a six foot hole in the ground as the cheap wooden coffin was lowered to its final resting place. No one was here to pay respects to the dead. They were all friends of Porthos, come to support him when he needed them and, once again, he would always be grateful for their kindness.

In the distance, leaning against the trunk of a yew tree, was a familiar figure, bearded once more and wearing an old tweed overcoat that Porthos had never seen, but then he hadn't known him in winter. He hadn't known him at all, for that matter.

Aramis' fingers closed around his wrist. "You don't have to speak to him if you don't want to."

"I know," said Porthos. He didn't have anything to say to Athos and yet he couldn't take his eyes off the man, empathising as always, hoping that this wasn't bringing back too many memories of another funeral with a much smaller coffin.

Throwing the required handful of dirt onto the wooden lid, he prayed that these resurgent feelings would be buried alongside his mother. He'd been doing fine up until now. He'd been getting on with his life. Why did she have to fuck things up again and make him come back here.

"I should have stayed away," he muttered, once the short service was over.

"No," said Treville. "You needed this. We'll have a drink at the pub and then you and I are going to have a long chat and work out what else you need. Don't bottle everything up, son. It won't do you any good."

"I don't want to drink to her," said Porthos petulantly. "The last thing my mother deserves is a send off." God, he was dead on his feet. Plagued by nightmares since Sergeant Baker had told him the news, and with no sleep at all last night, he could barely even think.

"Then don't drink to her, drink to the rest of us," said Aramis. "Treville's right though," he added with a nod at the older man. "You need to stay here for a few days and work this through."

"But what about the band?" asked Porthos.

"We'll head back to France and keep things sweet with the tour manager," said d'Artagnan. "In the meantime, do some thinking, bro. Get some resolution."

Porthos looked back at the yew tree, but Athos had disappeared. "More than anything, I could do with a kip," he admitted.

Stretched out on Treville's spare bed, Porthos closed his eyes and breathed in, sense memory lifting him up and carrying him back to the good times he'd spent in this building. Too fraught after everything that had happened recently, he didn't think he'd even manage a doze, but he was wrong and the next thing he knew it was dark outside and there was a warm cup of tea on the bedside table.

Sitting up, he swallowed a couple of gulps and allowed his mind to take off in the direction of the caravan park. It was a dangerous thing to do and, on the verge of tears, he locked away his feelings and climbed out of bed, refreshed enough to carry on with life, grateful for the chance of some sleep, however disorientated he might be from it. 

The one thing he did know for sure was that there was no resolution to be found in this place and he needed to get away from here as soon as possible. After a quick splash wash to wake himself up, he was on his way out of the back exit when he heard a familiar broken down voice, and like a siren call, he followed it, standing in the doorway behind the bar and listening to Athos sing.

"Don't know what's on my mind. What am I thinking? Whatever I say is a lie so stop staring. Tread carefully."

Something buried deep inside Porthos cracked sharply then split open, and all the pain that had been stored up over the past few months emerged in a torrent.

"Take a breath and count the stars. Let the world go round without you. If you're somewhere you can hear my song, sing along. Close your eyes and count to ten. Maybe love's the only answer. I will find a way to sing your song, so sing along."

The warm tone of the Tanglewood suited the music, but it was the depth of emotion that caused tears to drip down Porthos' face. He found himself crying over every diseased moment in his life. Every good thing that had been taken away from him.

"What is lost can be replaced. What is gone is not forgotten. I wish you were here to sing my song. My son." 

Finishing on a broken note that matched his broken heart, Athos placed the guitar into its case and fastened each clasp with great care. Picking it up, he left the stage to a muted round of applause from the few customers present and was about to walk out of the pub when he caught sight of Porthos behind the bar and came to an awkward standstill.

"I thought you'd gone back to Europe," he said, looking up through damp lashes. 

"The others did. I was too knackered," explained Porthos.

Athos stared at him, head cocked to one side as if he wasn't entirely sure whether their meeting was real. "I'm not sorry about your mother." 

"Neither am I," said Porthos and he almost smiled because only Athos would know him well enough to say that. "You finished the song," he added. "It's beautiful."

"Thanks," said Athos and he heaved in a breath and looked away. "Got to go. Nice to see you."

"Don't," said Porthos. "Can we talk?"

Athos scrubbed the heel of a palm across both eyes. "I don't know."

"Can we try at least?" said Porthos. He looked around him at the comforting surroundings of the pub. "Our Last Chance saloon."

"I suppose." Athos let out a small huff of amusement, or maybe it was a sob. "Can you take care of this?" he said, handing the guitar case to Treville. 

"I will as long as you two promise to take care of each other," said Treville, a look of hope on his face.

They left The Wren and then shuffled around helplessly on the pavement, unsure of what to do for the best. Some neutral territory was needed, but there was none to be found in this town. Everywhere had some kind of memory attached to it.

"I got my licence back. I have a car," said Athos, wandering across the road and unlocking a battered old Fiesta.

"Almost a car," said Porthos.

"I almost have a job too," said Athos with a nervous smile. "There's not many options for an ex con, so I just do some part time office work, but it's something."

"It is," said Porthos as he climbed into the passenger seat, wishing he hadn't been so quick to take the piss. It was a defence mechanism, but very much out of place. The few times he'd dared think of Athos, he'd imagined him stuck in an ever deepening rut of depression and to hear that he was trying so hard to get on with life was heart warming. His frozen heart was growing warmer by the second. "I'm proud of you."

"Don't be so bloody condescending," said Athos sullenly, reversing out of the space. 

"Fuck you," said Porthos and they sulked with each until Athos stopped the car in one of those leafy little car parks that were meant for dog walkers but had now been taken over by a different breed of dogger. "Don't leave your lights on," he added with a snort of amusement. "Why are we here, Athos? Where the fuck are we?"

"Home," said Athos, getting out and slamming the door. "I owe you some truths, I think."

They followed the wide path along the river bank and then crossed over a footbridge where the track meandered upwards until it came out at the ridge of hill which overlooked the big house.

"Ah, that home," said Porthos, staring down at the building. "You said you were from around here. At least that wasn't a lie." It was a stupid thing to say and he regretted it the moment he watched Athos shrink into himself. "I'm sorry," he said in a low voice. "What was it like growing up here?"

"It was good," said Athos.

Porthos was sensible this time and refrained from making any more flippant comments. He toyed with the worn metal music note around his neck and wondered if Athos still wore his.

"Everything went wrong when I finally accepted that I was gay," continued Athos, taking off his coat so they could sit on it and protect themselves from the damp grass. "I was an only child. There was no one else in our family to carry on the line and so I was expected to get married. It was all my parents ever talked about. They weren't bad people. They weren't drunks and they weren't cruel to me, but they would never have understood if I came out as homosexual."

"And so you got married to please them?"

"Sort of," said Athos. "I met Anne when she was a debutante and I liked her so we started seeing each other. The problem was, after eighteen months, we'd still done nothing more than kiss. Not surprisingly, she was pretty frustrated with the way things were going and so she booked us a romantic holiday where, with a lot of fantasising on my part, I managed to screw her a couple of times. She got pregnant. We got married. My parents were overjoyed, and so was I when Thomas was born."

"You make it sound so matter of fact," said Porthos.

Athos glanced cautiously at him. "It was. I was breeding stock and I'd done my duty and bred. The problems then set in. I was a frustrated gay man, living a lie to keep my parents happy. The marriage was a sham. Anne and I were hopeless together. She had her rich party bitches and I had my son."

"So you started drinking," said Porthos.

Athos shook his head. "Other than on social occasions, no."

"What did happen then?"

"I did something stupid," said Athos. "I knew I was gay, but I'd never actually been with a man and so when my parents were away in Gstaad and Anne had taken Thomas to see friends for the weekend, I grabbed the chance and I-" He drifted off for a moment.

"You went cruising?" prompted Porthos.

"No." Athos hung his head. "I had to be more discreet than that, so I paid for a prostitute. It sounds dreadful, I know."

Porthos thought it sounded honest more than anything. "Not at all."

Athos smiled gratefully at him. "It was perfect, as a matter of fact. He was handsome and he was kind to me. He also understood what I was going through. It was so good that I paid for the whole weekend with him, which was an idiotic thing to do." He balled his fists in frustration. "Anne came back a couple of hours early and she found us in bed together. I think she'd been waiting for the ideal opportunity to escape the marriage and this was it."

"So she took the kid and left you?" said Porthos. He wanted to reach out to Athos, but he wasn't quite ready, still afraid.

"She explained everything to my parents first. Lying to them, telling them she'd found me with all kinds of men. Accused me of being perverted, but yes, then she took Thomas and told me I'd never see him again." 

Porthos tried to imagine what it must be like to be twenty three years old with all that on your shoulders, and this time he did take hold of Athos' hand. "Go on."

That's when I began to drink," said Athos. "Anything I could lay my hands on. Mother and Father were disgusted by me. I could see it in their eyes every time they couldn't quite bring themselves to look at me." There was a long pause. "I just wanted my son back. That was all." He let out a snarl of self reproach. "I'll never understand why I did it. I couldn't stand the thought of not having Thomas in my life. And so I took him from her and I killed him and I'll never forgive myself."

"But she's forgiven you?" said Porthos, remembering a sad conversation that had taken place outside the pub .

"She lied in court," said Athos. "She lied about everything and no matter how much I tried to convince people, no one would believe me. She told them I was an abusive drunk. She told them I was a pervert. That I hit my own child. None of that mattered though because the reason I was standing trial was because I'd killed my little boy. I was guilty of that and so I went to prison. I think I'll always be in prison."

"If she can let go then so can you," said Porthos.

"She wanted to clear her conscience of all those lies," said Athos. "She was able to make amends by saying sorry. I can never bring Thomas back from the dead."

"Come here," said Porthos and he pulled Athos into a sudden hug. "You should have told me this before."

"I know." Athos broke down. "But I didn't want to lose you. You wouldn't have understood. No one could understand."

"I understand the truth far better than the version that blond prick told us," said Porthos and he lay on his back looking up at the stars. "Fuck, Athos. I don't know what to do."

Athos lay down next to him. "You'll go back to Musketeers and I'll carry on with my filing and emails," he said softly.

"It's not as simple as that." Porthos knew that it was time for his own confession. "No matter how hard I try, I can't stop loving you."

"I know. Me too." Athos squeezed his hand. "But I'm always going to be this rotten thing, and you'll always be a wonderful, amazing man. You need someone good in your life."

Porthos turned onto his side. "I don't see anyone rotten," he said in a gruff voice. "I see someone who made a mistake. Someone who's sad and hurting and trying so fucking hard to overcome it all. I see someone who paints pictures with his songs and makes the world remember how to feel. I see someone I love so much that every day we spend apart feels like a living hell."

"Yes." Athos smile was slow and sweet and he continued to stare upwards and count the stars. "Life sucks without you."

Letting out a surprised burst of laughter, Porthos rolled over onto him, spreading himself out like a blanket. "Life sucks?" he said. "That's the best you can come up with?"

Clamping both hands around the back of Porthos neck, Athos pulled him close, lips brushing together for the faintest hint of a kiss. "How about this?" he said, tracing the outline of Porthos' mouth with the tip of his tongue.

"More," murmured Porthos. "More, more."

And, Jesus, when they moved on from teasing licks to actual kissing Porthos' cold stone of a heart went from warm to fiery furnace. "Shouldn't we?" he said, his words muffled by tongues and lips as they fought with buttons and buckles and pants in order to reconnect, naked and hot.

"Shouldn't we what?" 

Arching up against him, Athos peppered his skin with kisses and Porthos revelled in the roughness of that full beard as it ghosted over him.

"I dunno." Porthos laughed at himself. "Go to bed and make love or something."

"This." Athos bucked his hips, cock grinding against Porthos. "This is the perfect kind of love. Our kind of love."

From then on it was a tumble, a beautiful ride of bodies, and with mouths locked and fingertips teasing over bare skin they pushed each other to a wild climax and ended up tangled together, gasping for breath and still laughing. Always laughing despite everything.

"I missed doing this," said Porthos, rolling away and fastening his clothes in a hurry. "But can we please go because it's bloody freezing."

"Another of your less than impressive après sex moments." Athos raised an eyebrow.

"You're a git and a posh one at that." Wrinkling the material of Athos' shirt between his fingers, Porthos blew raspberries onto his belly, keeping him trapped in place by the weight of his body. He was wearing the necklace and Porthos grew lightheaded with happiness. "Tell me how much you missed me."

"Missed who?" Athos fought to get away, but failed miserably. "Stop," he pleaded. "I'll tell you. I promise."

Still straddling him Porthos sat up, ready to launch a new attack if necessary. "Go on then. Spill," he said with a grin. "Make it good, or else."

Athos stared up at him. "It's been four months, three weeks and six days since we were last together and every second of it has been agony," he said and his eyes were huge in the moonlight. "I tore my heart out every night and every day it was back hurting more than ever. I missed seeing you, holding you, kissing you. I missed touching you. I missed fucking you, but most of all I missed talking to you so damn much." He turned away, whimpered under his breath. "I can't do this-"

The crying that followed was a cathartic double act which led to some messy kisses with even more intense declarations, and by the end of it Porthos was chilled to the bone but warm in every way that mattered. 

"So life really did suck without me then?" he said, nuzzling into Athos' neck.

"A little bit." Athos held his finger and thumb an inch apart. "Maybe this much."

"Then, for fuck's sake, let's not be without each other any longer," said Porthos. "Come back to the band."

Startled, Athos sat up suddenly, pushing Porthos aside. "But what about Aramis and d'Artagnan? What will they think?"

"They need you as much as I do," said Porthos. "We all need you. We're wrong without you."

"And the record contracts?"

"We haven't signed anything yet." Porthos nudged him. "Are you being deliberately difficult?"

"Practical, I call it," said Athos. "What about my name?"

"I'm shivering; let's go." Porthos got up and pulled Athos to standing. "Be Athos, just Athos. Be Athos La Fère. Be Olivier. Be anything. Anything but Ollie because I hate that name. Just be mine."

"And when my story gets out?" Athos squirmed away from him and folded his arms. "Because it will."

"Then you'll get a chance to tell it properly, won't you." Porthos grinned. "Plus every rock band needs a dodgy ex con. You're just a bit posher than most of the other crims."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the lyric video to [Sing Along](http://youtube.com/watch?v=3gxuxE9EVHk) from Rudderless which is the song Athos sings in The Wren.
> 
> <3


	17. Chapter 17

"This is ridiculous," said Athos as they waited at the carousel for his luggage and guitar case.

"You're way too old for sulking," said Porthos, leaning over and nipping at that pouty lower lip.

"But we should have called them first," said Athos.

He was in such a panic that Porthos had to kiss him thoroughly in front of everyone in order to calm him down. He wasn't certain how cool they were with gay PDA's in Spain, but they'd soon find out.

"Shush," he said now that Athos was relaxed in his arms. "Show don't tell, remember."

A taxi took them straight to the venue where they'd be playing that evening and it turned out that there was one problem with their plan which was proving difficult to surmount. Neither of them spoke any Spanish and there was no way the security guy at the door was letting them in, even with Athos' battered guitar case as evidence of musicality.

All of a sudden there was a whirlwind of body parts and words as Aramis and d'Artagnan appeared on the other side of the stage door, Aramis babbling away at the poor bloke and d'Artagnan gesticulating along with him, despite the fact he hardly understood a word of Spanish himself.

"Thanks guys," said Porthos when he was finally allowed into the building, dragging a nervous Athos behind him. "Lookee here, I brought us a memento of the old days."

The bass player and drummer formed a wall, stony faced and arms folded, but then after a minute's silence they erupted into laughter.

"Really," said Aramis with a smirk. "We never imagined," and then he pulled them all into a group hug, the Tanglewood included in the huddle. "All for fucking one, you pair of prats."

"Are you sure it's not a problem?" asked Athos anxiously.

"I'd call it a solution more than a problem," said Aramis.

"Yep," agreed d'Artagnan. "The big guy here needs to get some va va voom back into his life and you're the only one who can do it." He clapped Athos on the back. "But no more secrets, eh?"

"Not a one," promised Athos with a shy smile.

"Then let's quit the chatter and get on with rehearsals," said Aramis. "Musketeers always come first."

Everything fell into place during practice and even more so at the gig. Magic happened when they were on stage together--something cosmically weird and intrinsically wonderful--and, under a spell, the audience were entranced and fell in love with them, enough to shift a metric ton of fleur-de-lys merchandise.

Later, in their downmarket, downtown hotel room, there was a revisiting of that magic, and although Porthos had given his heart away to Athos a long time ago, perhaps even the day they first met, he fell deeper and harder as they made every kind of love: nasty, dirty, sweet, but all of it perfect.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" he groaned as Athos scooched downwards, kissing a naked torso as he went. "Don't grin at me like that, you freak. I'm done." But that mouth was divine and however sensitive he might be feeling after fours hours of sex, it didn't stop him from rising to the occasion. "Okay, maybe not done yet."

"Good, because it's too hot to sleep," said Athos, his voice muffled by a mouthful of cock.

With both hands tucked behind his head, Porthos watched the slow revolution of the wooden ceiling fan and drifted on a haze of arousal. It was languid, there were sounds of party goers in the Madrid streets below and, surrendering to the atmosphere he came in a series of undulating waves deep inside Athos' throat.

They switched places and Porthos knelt, returning the favour and worshipping at the altar the way he'd had joked about after their first proper fuck.

"Oh," breathed Athos as he climaxed and Porthos drank him down, thin and sweet after coming so many times.

"Sleepy yet?" asked Porthos, lying next to him and they kissed for a while sharing the taste of each other.

"I am, but I want to stay awake a while." Athos reached out to cradle Porthos' face. "I didn't think I could ever be this happy. I'm still not certain I'm entitled to it."

"You've paid your dues," said Porthos, full of determined honesty.

*

With the band going from strength to strength, Richelieu was more than happy to sign up Athos as one of his whores and the contracts were completed post haste. 

"We'll need long spoons tonight," said Porthos as they lounged around backstage at the exhibition centre in Birmingham on their second leg of the UK tour. It had been an exhausting six months.

"What do you mean?" asked d'Artagnan, his arm tucked around Constance.

"He means we'll be supping with the Devil," said Aramis, tearing himself away from the mouth of one of his scantily clad groupies who immediately dropped to her knees and joined her friend, the pair of them giving him an exhibition standard blow job. "Oh, that's amazing." He threw his head back in abandonment. "You really should try this."

Porthos shook his head in despair. "You have no bloody shame, mate," he said and then he looked across at Athos who was watching the show. "Still," he grinned. "When in Rome." They came together for some very hungry kisses.

"But we're in Birmingham." Constance looked mildly disapproving. "Oh, fuck it," she added and, straddling d'Artagnan's knee, she pressed her mouth to his.

The party continued, the atmosphere heating up nicely when a door opened and there was a hiss of fury followed by a loud sniffle. "Aramis?"

They all stopped what they were doing and stared at Marguerite. 

Aramis gently pushed the two girls away from his cock who giggled at each other and then escaped, probably off to wait for the headline act to finish. "Um, hi?" he said.

"I thought you loved me," said Marguerite.

"We should do this somewhere private," said Aramis, making himself decent and getting up.

"Oh no," said Marguerite, anger taking over from upset as she stood in front of him, her hands on her hips. "I want everyone to hear this, Aramis. I'm pregnant. I'm having your baby. You're the only man I've ever slept with in my life so before you try and wriggle out of this, it's definitely yours."

"Fuck," muttered Porthos under his breath, wondering what the hell Aramis was going to do. It had seemed like the perfect time to tell her the truth and now she'd dropped this bombshell.

"Anyway," continued the girl. "I don't actually want to talk to you right now. I'm going home and you can call me when you've remembered how to speak, rather than just do an impression of a goldfish." She spun on her heels. "I'm going to get a taxi back and you can damn well pay for it."

With that, she stormed out of the room and, red faced and red handed, Aramis chased after her. "Margie," he called. "Wait."

"Talk about getting caught with your pants down," said Porthos, pulling a face. It was Aramis' own fault, but he still felt sorry for his best mate. 

"Seems like he got caught all ways," said Athos.

"Poor Marguerite," sighed Constance. "I should have warned her what he was like."

"It was none of our business," said d'Artagnan firmly. "Aramis never exactly hid the fact that he was a player. It's up to them to decide what they're going to do."

Consequences were tough little blighters, thought Porthos and then he remembered a small blond boy with a cute smile and reached instinctively for Athos' hand.

"I think we should get ready for dinner with Richelieu," said d'Artagnan. 

The five of them met up again at the taxi rank outside the hotel. Aramis hadn't bothered to get changed and was pacing up and down, a cigarette burning away to ash between his fingers.

They climbed into a cab where the atmosphere was dense enough to slice with a very sharp knife.

"I'm going to marry her," said Aramis in a monotone, and realising he still had his cigarette with him he threw it hastily out of the window. "I must take my responsibility seriously."

"Do you love her?" asked Athos.

"Not in the slightest," said Aramis with a sigh.

"Then don't get married," said Athos. "Be a good father rather than a bad husband."

"But I have to," said Aramis, gazing out at the streets of Birmingham. "I owe it to her. I owe it to the baby."

"It's up to you," said Athos. "But you'll always cheat and she'll always be unhappy, and soon the only thing you'll have in common is one increasingly miserable child." Athos shrugged. "That's all I'm going to say on the subject."

It was a harsh summary of a short marriage that had ended in tragedy and everyone was silent for the remainder of the journey.

"I may be drinking too much tonight," admitted Aramis when they pulled up outside the restaurant.

"I don't blame you, bro," said d'Artagnan with a wan smile as he helped Constance out of the taxi. "Perhaps Richelieu has some good news and we can celebrate instead."

It turned out that the Devil was in town to deliver some very good news indeed.

"Well, dear people. It seems you've been noticed," said Richelieu as he took a seat. Pulling out a sheaf of contracts he passed them around the table. "Sign first and thank me later," he said with a chuckle of delight. "I've negotiated you chaps the record deal of a lifetime."

"I think we'd like to read it, if you've no objection," said Athos coolly.

Porthos smiled. He was the only one here who knew that Athos had been three quarters of the way through a law degree at Imperial before things went tits up. It was a miniscule secret, but a very useful one at times like these.

"Of course." Richelieu waved a dismissive hand in his direction. "You also have a couple more offers of festivals this summer. A small slot at Reading, or, on the same day, a chance to headline your very own Search the Sun."

Once again, they looked at each other in disbelief. So much had happened in a year.

"StS all the fucking way," yelled d'Artagnan and he fist bumped the others in turn.

"Wrong choice, my boy," sighed Richelieu. "But knowing you Musketeers as well as I now do, it's entirely as I expected."


	18. Chapter 18

With Athos reporting back to the others that the offer from the record company was _pretty damn cracking_ , they immediately signed their names to a four album deal. The money exceeded anything he'd ever dreamed of, but for Porthos it was all about the chance to make music in a professional capacity.

Once the tour was over they went straight into the studio, which proved to be an utter joy. Porthos was a kid in a candy store, knowledgeable about the technology and with such a great ear that the engineers and producer they were working with were more than happy to listen to his input. 

They recorded at least two albums worth of songs and were so used to playing them that it took weeks rather than months to lay the tracks down, although it was impossible to drag Porthos out of the studio at the end of each day.

"Where did you learn to play guitar?" he asked Athos when they had their heads together at the mixing desk.

"In prison." Athos raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "Music therapy sessions."

"No fucking way." Porthos burst out laughing. "So I called it right from the start?"

"You did." Athos grinned. "You're remarkably astute." He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was around and then slid onto Porthos' knee for some kisses. "Remarkable all round."

"They're at it again," complained d'Artagnan when he and Aramis joined them in the booth a few minutes later. "Guys, we need to get this album finished before festival season starts up. We have a couple of weeks is all."

"Relax, puppy boy," said Porthos, sulking now that Athos had deserted him for another chair. "It's finished and in with the execs. We were just recording one of Athos' songs." The one that had brought them together again: a song for Thomas and also for him. He played the bare bones of it to the others and it was haunting in its simplicity.

"You have a gift, chéri," said Aramis, kissing Athos on the forehead who frowned at him and ducked away then switched tracks to Long Time No See.

"We all have a bloody gift," said d'Artagnan. "This mix is massive. It has to be the single. Now we just have to find out how they're going to market us."

The answer was as a cross between Mad Max and a leather clad pastiche of seventeenth century pirates. It was perfect: scruffy enough to keep Athos happy and it fitted in well with the band's retro anarchic style. The video shoot was a post apocalyptic chase, full of pimped cars, pistols and pyro, and nestled in amongst the chaos were four overgrown children, having the time of their lives.

"I thought you'd be way too moody for this?" laughed Porthos as Athos climbed off one of the motorbikes, unable to hide a boyish grin of delight.

Athos shrugged. "I'm happy," he said, and as far as Porthos was concerned, that was all that mattered.

*

With some fierce promotion underway, it didn't take long for Athos' story to make the minor columns of the music papers and blog sites. 

Far from being annoyed, Richelieu found it positively splendid news. "Finally an act I can get my teeth into," he leered. "Titled _and_ a criminal, you really are a dream, dear boy. Lord Lucan revisited."

Athos was finding it less of a dream and more of a public humiliation and so hid away from the world, staring at vodka bottles rather than actually drinking them, but it was still a huge worry for Porthos who hated to see him hurting.

"If you can't cope with all the crap then we quit the band and fuck off to the Outer Hebrides or somewhere," he said, relaxing back on the bed with Athos sprawled bonelessly across him, both of them zoned out after an hour or so of therapeutic fucking. 

"You'd do that for me?" 

A pair of startled green eyes looked up at him and Porthos smiled. "Nah, I'm far too selfish. I'd do it for us." He twisted them around around they were lying side by side. "Listen, darling, I need two things in my life, you and a guitar. Nothing else is important, you hear me?"

"I hear you," said Athos. "This shit will die down soon though?"

"Course it will." Porthos kissed him. "You're my entire world, but you're a nine days wonder to everyone else."

*

The video for Long Time No See was played widely on the music channels and before long they were almost famous. By the time August was coming to an end and StS was here, they actually had fans who didn't come from their own town. It was, however, brilliant to be back home and have a chance to catch up with the old ones.

"What time do you call this?" yelled d'Artagnan, glaring at Aramis. "The other two are pathologically late, not you."

Aramis threw himself down into a deckchair, joint in hand, grin in place. "I went with Margie to her appointment at the clinic. I got to see my little bub wriggling around."

"Your little bub wriggles around way too much," chuckled Porthos. "That's the fucking problem."

"Quiet now," said Aramis. "None of that filthy talk when you're discussing my offspring. Marguerite and I are going to be the best parents ever, even if we're not together."

"So has this taught you a lesson?" asked Constance in her schoolmarm voice.

"Safe sex all the way, sugar." Aramis winked at her. " _Lots_ of safe sex."

There was a combined groan of despair from the group.

"And Anne?" asked Porthos. "How's she taking it? She's pretty attached to Margie."

"Actually she's impressed." Aramis grinned. "She thinks I'm being very mature about it, supportive without the need for grand gestures and bended knees."

"That's cool," said Porthos with a shrug, passing his joint to Athos who pulled a face and passed it on.

Aramis smiled happily. "So, maybe there's some hope for us yet."

"Oh god no," muttered Porthos, his head in his hands. "There's no hope for you, mate. You're a bloody lost cause."

The weather had been fantastic all day. The sun had now dipped down below the horizon and festival goers were pushing to the front of the arena for a good view. The band watched from the wings as their roadies set up all the equipment. The computerised light show was good to go and the stage was once again transformed into an old garrison. 

"I still can't believe this is happening," said Porthos.

"What?" laughed Aramis. 'We're headlining one of the smallest festival in the country and our single has reached the heady heights of ninety four in the charts?"

As they walked out on stage to the usual backing track, a roar erupted from the crowd, the kind they'd never heard before. The audience was a sea of flags interspersed with flashes from phones and cameras and the commotion only got louder when they launched into their first song.

"Ninety four is fine. Who needs a number one when we have this," yelled Porthos as they finished the final encore to loud demands for more, even though the lights were dimming and the fireworks already starting up.

"We might get to sixty nine later." Athos raised an amused eyebrow.

"I wouldn't put it past us," said Porthos, slinging an arm around him and kissing him full on the mouth. "Let's go home and see what comes up."

Too tired to party and too randy to do anything but plead exhaustion and head for sanctuary, they stripped each other off and fell naked into Treville's spare bed.

"Daddy won't mind us fucking in here, will he?" smirked Athos, though it was a little late for that seeing as he was starfished out with Porthos kneeling between his legs, fingering him open and stroking his cock.

"Daddy doesn't have to find out." Porthos grinned and slid on a condom for some less messy sex.

"What? With the noise you make when you come?" Athos let out a huff of amusement. "You sound like an angry bull on the rampage."

Porthos narrowed his eyes and hauled Athos around until he was spread over him, slapping a hand down hard on his arse. "You cheeky fucking bitch," he said with a bellow of laughter. "Now you get to ride me as penance."

Athos knelt up, taking Porthos into him a fraction of an inch at a time. "My favourite ever punishment," he said, his voice hoarse with excitement.

Adrenaline pushed the sex to new highs and as Athos screwed him--slowly, steadily--Porthos held that pretty cock, letting it slide slick through the circle of his fist, stroking, squeezing, tugging at Athos' balls then thumbing each nipple in turn until his toes were curling and he was coming in streaks over Porthos' chest.

They tumbled to the floor, Athos' face pressed into the bed as Porthos fucked into him, loud and hard, taking him in some deeply primal way. The _love you's_ were then shared out equally as they slid under the covers for some much needed cuddling.

"It's good to be home," said Porthos, his face nestled into the crook of Athos' neck.

*

The next night was all about reliving the past. D'Artagnan and Aramis had gone off to StS, but once again the weather had turned to shit and the other two opted to hang out at The Wren which was low lit and devoid of customers, perfectly suited to their mood.

"Play something," said Treville, pointing at the stage which was set up ready for open mic on Wednesday. "I never get to hear you nowadays, except on MTV."

As always, Athos had his guitar with him and he opened the case and passed the instrument to Porthos. "You play it," he said, sober in all ways.

They took to the stage, every step a trip back in time, and without another word Porthos smoothed his hand over the surface of the Tanglewood and began to pick at the strings, choosing the slower tunes, the broken down painful ones to which Athos poured out his soul. They finished up with Thomas' song, both too emotional to carry on any longer, and then returned to sit at the bar, silent for a long while afterwards.

"I missed you boys," said Treville in a gruff voice.

"We missed you too. I miss everything about this place." Porthos' voice cracked a little and Athos held his hand.

"When I'm past it and can't pull a pint then you can come and run it for me," said Treville. "Unless you're too famous by then, that is."

"Never too famous for you." Porthos raised his Coke in a toast.

"Surely you're past it already, old man," smirked Athos, eliciting a rumble of discontent from Treville. "How about we take over tomorrow?"

Porthos smiled at this because he knew that one day, not tomorrow, not next year or even the year after, but one day it would happen and he felt safe for the first time in his life.

 

\---end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments and the kudos. You're the best people ever.


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